


Death's Door and Other Stories

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 41,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various and sundry ficlets and prompt fills originally posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Levity

**Author's Note:**

> Hidy ho, Winslows!  
> Here are some ficlets and prompt fills that I previously only published on Tumblr. Several are pre-Series 3, so there might be some weird discrepancies lurking here.

* * *

He wasn’t sure why they were being so furtive about it.

He wasn’t ashamed of her (on the contrary, he actually felt a rather alien pride when he looked at all she had accomplished).

Her reputation wouldn’t suffer (she’d earned her position with hard, accurate work, not because of whose bed she happened to occupy).

It would hardly rock any boats (in fact, their friends would probably be thrilled for them).

In spite of all this, they kept it a secret. They consigned any outward displays of affection to fleeting things: eyes meeting and crinkling in shared mirth, fingers brushing under tabletops, whispered conversations over the blood centrifuge, and nights—far too short—spent sharing the lyrics and poems of their bodies.

She made him  _happy._  She had a wry sense of humor when she was relaxed. He actually experienced that singular sensation of a face hurting from smiling too much and stomach and throat muscles aching from hard laughter.

On one clandestine day, they’d nearly gotten kicked out of the National Gallery for disturbing the museum’s quiet. As they’d walked from painting to painting, she’d provided outlandish stories for each one (she’d had to remind him that she was joking during the first few and then, at the next few, convince him that silliness made practically _anything_ better. After that, however, he’d enjoyed it).  When they’d arrived at a particularly lurid depiction of some saint or other with a scythe buried in his skull and she deadpanned, “Maybe he’ll be okay,” he’d guffawed so loudly that she’d finally decided they’d better leave. They’d snickered as they hurried down the Gallery’s sprawling front steps and then she’d seated herself on the rim of one of the square’s fountains. He’d stood in front of her, bending down to kiss her, his gloved hands framing her face. They were still chuckling as their lips met.

She was perfectly content to carry on in secret. She saw great humor in telling him she was going to buy a stained, zippered dressing gown, wear her hair in curlers, and follow him around with a cigarette hanging limply from her lips, demanding to know why he never took her to the Pictures. She’d waved away his confusion as she giggled at her own imagery and then changed the subject by suggesting that they find an abandoned office to neck in during her morning break the next day.

Once, he’d asked her  _why_  they were keeping it secret. She’d smiled at him and said, “I’ve never been one for big announcements. They seem so… attention-grabby,” (sometimes, she made up words, much to his bafflement). When he’d asked her why she hated attention, she’d affably shrugged, replying, “So many people looking at me at once? No, thanks.”

Knowing what effect too many gawkers had on his brainwork, he understood her concerns.

So they carried on in secret for nearly six months.

Until he slipped.

They were at John and Mary’s, eating dinner. He’d been worried that she wouldn’t be invited, but when he came through the door, there she was, standing off to the side of the sitting room. She was waiting for their hosts to finish greeting Mrs. Hudson and him so that she could do the same.

He found the night surprisingly pleasant. He’d managed not to anger anyone by dint of being himself, and they were enjoying chatting long after they’d finished eating.

Someone asked her how work was going. She replied that it was fine before making a feeble joke about necrotic tissue being a metaphor for life. Everyone else smiled politely, but he just squinted at her from across the table.

She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly.

“I love you,” he said, before realizing he’d spoken aloud.

As much as he hated aphorisms, he had to admit that a pin dropping would have seemed deafening at that moment.

Her brown eyes widened at him, and he briefly thought about trying to recover. Something like, “I love you—r poor attempts at levity.”

But then he decided he didn’t want to try.

“Right,” he addressed the room at large. “Molly and I are engaged in a romantic and sexual relationship. I’m very happy and so is she. Who would like more wine?”

She still stared at him, stunned.

But, soon, she snorted indelicately, trying to suppress a laugh. Then she stopped fighting it and let loose a peal of giggles. At that, he started chuckling, too. The rest of the stunned party soon joined them.

They all laughed until tears streamed from their eyes and their throats and stomach muscles hurt from the joy and absurdity of it all.

And when Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper left their friends’ flat that night, they did so hand-in-hand.

* * *

  **The End**

* * *

  
In case you were wondering: 

Ambrogio da Fossano-  _Saint Pierre martyr et une donatrice agenouillée (vers 1494)_

It’s really at the Louvre (hence my actually getting a [blurry] pic— National Gallery guards will kill a man if they see him using even flash-less photography). I just took the liberty of moving its location for the purpose of this ficlet because, really, it needs to be discussed.


	2. Calculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally published for daisherz365's birthday last year.

* * *

_“Recalculating….”_

_“When possible, make a legal U-turn.”_

_“In three hundred meters, enter roundabout.”_

_“Enter roundab—“_

“Yes, I am sodding entering the roundabout,” the driver muttered venomously at the vehicle’s sat-nav. “Now if you’d bloody well tell me which exit I should actually take  _in_  the roundabout, then maybe you wouldn’t have to spend your time recalculating all of my mistakes.”

By now, the car was on its second go-round, and its driver was no closer to choosing an exit.

“I think it’s this one,” the person sitting in the passenger’s seat said gently, pointing to one of the approximately fifty exits off of the infernal, circular hell.

The driver scoffed. “We already took that one.”

“No, we took the one right after it. The sat-nav told us to take the second exit, but we couldn’t figure out if that dead end counted as an exit. Remember?”

“Maybe,” the driver replied, rather truculently.

Fourth time around. They took the passenger’s suggested exit.

_“Continue for five hundred meters.”_

The passenger smiled, pleased that they were now on the correct course.

But then—

_“In three hundred meters, enter roundabout.”_

And low growl sounded in the driver’s throat.

_“Enter roundabout, and take fourth exit.”_

The driver’s face flushed an angry red. Knuckles blanched white in a tight grip on the steering wheel.

“This one will be much easier to navigate, I’m sure. How many roundabouts could be  _that_  ridiculously confusing?” The passenger tried, offering a placating pat on the driver’s shoulder.

The driver’s eyes rolled.

“Hell… it’s looks exactly the same. But I’m going to try…. this one.”

_“Recalculating….”_

The driver swore colorfully and loudly.

The passenger hesitated only very briefly before biting the bullet.

“Would… would you like me to drive for a little while?”

The driver wheeled on the passenger, looking rather incredulous.

“You can’t drive.”

“Yes I can. I just don’t very often.”

“How did I end up driving this entire time, then?”

“Because it’s easier being the passenger. Well,  _usually_  it is.”

The driver not being offended by the passenger’s insinuation that this particular journey was less than satisfactory showed just how frustrating traversing the unfamiliar territory really was. The car moved over to the side of the road and came to a stop.

The driver pointed a firm finger at the passenger. “This in no way reflects on my driving ability.”

“No, not in the least,” answered the passenger.

“And you agree that this sat-nav has it in for us? That it wasn’t my fault that it tried to steer us off of a cliff edge?”

“If I believed in satanic possession, this GPS would be my first guess as to the devil’s current residence.”

With a sigh, Molly Hooper shut off the car’s engine and unbuckled her seatbelt, preparing to open the car door to switch spots with Sherlock Holmes.

Before she could move, however, his hand on her arm stopped her.

He pulled her slightly across the car’s center console to place a smacking kiss on her lips.

“To calm you down,” he smirked.

Her raised eyebrows had the self-satisfied smile sliding back off of his face. He cleared his throat and hastened to add, “Or to say thanks for the great job you’ve been doing so far. We’ll be in Doolin in no time, and this is just a small detour.”

Molly nodded in approval at Sherlock’s speedy amendment and then hopped out of the car.

Once they were settled in their new spots, Sherlock adjusted the seat to accommodate his longer legs and pulled back onto the deserted road. He turned the car back in the direction from which they’d come.

The sat-nav began its spiel once more.

_“In one hundred meters, enter roundabout.”_

_“Enter roundabout and take the sixth exit.”_

And then,

_“Recalculating….”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” sighed Molly.

In the three months that they’d been together, Sherlock was coming to realize that Molly really was very foul-mouthed.

He rather liked it.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

 

 

A little backstory:

This is Dame Judy, the satellite navigator. This is Dame Judy, the sat-nav, telling me to drive over the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, whereupon I would “arrive at [my] final destination.”

Needless to say, I didn’t fall (literally) for her murderous tricks.


	3. Holiday Makers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for flavialikestodraw

* * *

The cobblestones were hell on their feet, but it didn’t slow her down. She often raced ahead of him as they walked down the sun-warmed streets. The wide brim of her hat would flop excitedly as she hurried to each corner, eager to see what was in store for them next. She would peer around each turn, ready to snap pictures of any building, fountain, or person that caught her interest, and then she would rush back to show him her photographic souvenirs.

When Molly told John she was taking a week-long holiday to Italy, Sherlock had listened from behind his microscope, his mind tracking a mental map of her journey from Rome to Florence. She would be leaving the next day. His fingers had twitched on the slide stage adjustment knob as he pictured her people-watching as she sat at a table outside of a gelateria, occasionally spooning bites of a sweet, lemony treat into her mouth. In his mind’s eye, she spoke broken Italian to the locals, trying to navigate the cities without using much English. In his imagination, she looked a little sunburned, but not badly. He  _knew_  that while there, she would be happy and relaxed.

Then he realized: he didn’t want just to imagine it.

After John had wandered off to the hospital cafeteria, he’d stared hard at a slide, mounting a specimen on it while he considered his words. It wouldn’t do to appear overly eager. “It could be dangerous for you to travel alone like that,” he’d said casually. She had been startled by his voice after he’d remained silent for so long, but she quickly recovered and sent an absent smile his way as she continued typing a report into one of the lab’s computers.

“I’ve done it several times and never had any problems,” Molly had explained.“It’s perfectly safe, especially the places I’m planning to visit.”

“What if you get lost?” He’d asked her challengingly.

She’d looked a bit quizzical as she replied, “I would ask for directions….”

While she was speaking, he had dug out his mobile, rapidly typing on it. She’d looked at him expectantly, waiting for his next rejoinder. He had hit a final button on his phone with a flourish and said, “There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to go with you.”

“Go wi—Sherlock, I’m not sure where this sudden concern for my safety is coming from, but I assure you it is misplaced. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And frankly, it’s a bit insulting that you’re so sure I’ll automatically be a target of wrongdoers.”

“Molly, you are my friend, and as such, you put yourself at higher risk than others. I am merely thinking there’d be strength in numbers. Besides, do you speak Italian?”

She’d frowned. “No. Do  _you_?”

He’d fidgeted. “Yes, a little.” He could read most of the menu at Angelo’s. How hard could the rest of the language be to decipher? Besides, he’d had Latin lessons growing up. Surely he could translate word parts when push came to shove.

Shaking her head, Molly had made a frustrated sound. “This is ridiculous. I told you, I’m a frequent traveler, and I will be fine. Don’t you have some murder to solve?”

“Fresh out of cases, actually,” he chirped, once again scrolling through his mobile. “Which flight are you on? The 11:10 or the 13:45?”

“11:10,” she’d replied automatically before remembering that she was trying to dissuade him from his hare-brained idea. “Sherlock, why are you doing this? What if I want to go by myself?”

He’d scoffed. “Molly, no one  _wants_  to travel alone. I’m offering you my company and the safety of having a companion along with you. It’ll be just your cup of tea. We can take in the opera and go to Florence’s science museum. I do hope your hotel reservations are for a bed bigger than a single. It’ll be a tight fit otherwise. I refuse to sleep on the floor.“

With that, he’d hopped up off of his stool, rebuttoning his suit jacket and pocketing his mobile. He’d rushed away, explaining to a stunned Dr. Hooper that he must be off to make a few more last-minute arrangements and that he would collect her in a taxi the next morning.

She’d sent him several text messages trying to talk him out of it, but he’d ignored them and happily packed a suitcase for his unexpected holiday. When he’d told John where he was bound, his friend had merely shaken his head and walked away, muttering something about “Poor Molly.” Sherlock chose to ignore him, too.

Their journey to Rome was uneventful, though Molly did continually send him funny looks, as if she were trying to decipher a difficult puzzle. Once they were buckled into their seats on the plane (Sherlock had lied to the airline’s desk clerk, telling her that he and Molly were business partners and needed to discuss an important merger, and could she please be a dear and reassign them so that they’d be seated together?), Molly had told him on no uncertain terms that, if he was going to crash her holiday, he would follow her itinerary and he would  _like_  it.

He’d merely responded by raising an eyebrow as he slurped from a lukewarm cup of coffee. It was only when she tried to give him the slip in the Fiumicino airport that he realized she was serious. So, after much groveling and promising that he’d go wherever she wanted, she’d grudgingly agreed.

Their first three days had been spent seeing the sights in Rome. Molly had loved every moment of it, and he’d relished watching her loving it.

Sherlock had realized just how deeply his feelings for Molly went some time ago, and he’d watched her like a moony-eyed calf since then. He was tired of it. This holiday with her was when he decided he would do something about those feelings. But their time in Rome had been a series of false starts. He had managed to bashfully buy her a bouquet of flowers at Campo de’ Fiori, but when she thanked him, looking up at him through her eyelashes, hugging the bouquet to her chest, he’d gotten flustered and changed the subject.

Sharing a bed with her wasn’t helping, either. He’d been rather pleased to find she didn’t rush off and change her reservations to rooms with two beds, but at night he rarely slept. Each time she’d shift in her sleep next to him, he’d feel the tiny hairs on his body stand on end, each one aware of her proximity. A few times, she’d rolled against him and he lay there, feeling the warm weight of her breast against his arm, and he was surprised his thundering heartbeat didn’t wake her.

As he said, his moony-eyed calf routine was rather tired, and now, here in Florence, he was still trying to figure out how to articulate what he felt.

Molly ended up solving that problem for him. She was excited to visit the Basilica di Santa Croce and see the tombs of Michelangelo and Galileo. Her excitement was even a little catching, but he tried to hide it. Ennui was Sherlock’s default expression, not blind excitement, after all.

The morning of their second day in Florence, they set out for the Piazza di Santa Croce. The towering beauty of the Duomo was on their way, and Molly tarried there for awhile before continuing on to the piazza. As they walked, she stopped in various shops, purchasing little trinkets to take back to her friends, and convinced Sherlock to pose for a stern picture in front of a palazzo along the way. He couldn’t tamp down a pleased flush when she told him the gothic buildings of the city suited him as she fiddled with her camera’s zoom.

They finally reached the basilica, and Sherlock was surprised at how moved Molly was by the entire experience. He asked her if he was seeing a latent Catholicism shining through, and she laughed and explained that she was just overcome by the beauty of the place, and the reminder that it had stood there for more than 700 years.

After a large lunch out on the piazza, Sherlock perused their map and suggested they visit the Giardino di Boboli and she agreed enthusiastically. They walked at a fast clip until they reached the Ponte Vecchio, where she drew up short. She veered off, rushing through one of its arches to look out over the Arno River. Turning back to see if he’d followed, she beamed at him.

He couldn’t help but return the smile. But he felt it fade when he saw the way the sun gleamed in her hair while a slight breeze caused her striped sundress to flutter. Beneath hat, her large sunglasses hid her eyes from him, but he knew they’d be smiling too. He had never seen her look so pretty and so  _happy_ before.

What else could he do but hurry forward, take her face in his hands, and kiss her smiling mouth?

She murmured in surprise at his sudden move, but soon he felt her arms wrapping around him, and her lips returned his kiss with equal fervor.

They never made it to the Gardens of Boboli. As he lay in their bed at the hotel, his head pillowed on her bare stomach, he watched the ceiling fan’s shadows move through the sunlight filtering into the room. He couldn’t say he minded the detour. He would take Molly’s warmth to cold marble statues any day.


	4. A Business Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for nicolebrander about 80 years ago (literal count).

* * *

_22:34, 10 August_

I’m not sure why you’re asking me like this. – Molly

* * *

_22:37, 10 August_

How else would I ask you? –SH

* * *

_22:40, 10 August_

Most people prefer it to be done in person.  –Molly

* * *

_22:42, 10 August_

When have I ever been ‘most people’? –SH

* * *

_22:45, 10 August_

When it suits you.  But I was mostly talking about me. –Molly

* * *

_22:50, 10 August_

I’m busy at the moment and, thus, it doesn’t suit me to act like the hoi polloi. – SH

* * *

_22:52, 10 August_

Not the best time you could have chosen to say that. –Molly

* * *

_22:53, 10 August_

How so? –SH

* * *

_22:57, 10 August_

You said you’re too busy to ask in person. It must mean it’s not that important to you.  –Molly

* * *

_23:02, 10 August_

Of course it’s important to me. I love you. You love me. I enjoy your company more than anyone else’s. We’re extremely compatible in bed. You moaned so yourself just this morning. (1/2)

It seems to me that we make a good team and we might as well enjoy the tax benefits while we do so. –SH (2/2)

* * *

_23:05, 10 August_

Hubba hubba. –Molly

* * *

_23:06, 10 August_

What? –SH

* * *

_23:09, 10 August_

Just feeling the elastic in my knickers melt over your passionate words. –Molly

* * *

_23:11, 10 August_

Are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell over text. –SH

* * *

_23:14, 10 August_

Which is why you should have asked me in person. –Molly

* * *

_23:16, 10 August_

Fine. You want it in person? Very well. –SH

* * *

_23:42, 10 August_

I can’t believe you just shouted all of that to the wrong balcony. We’ve been dating two years and you still don’t know where I live? –Molly

* * *

_23:43, 10 August_

But I do think the gentleman you asked was about to take you up on your offer. It was actually quite romantic. –Molly

* * *

_23:45, 10 August_

I was not anticipating the stress of this undertaking. In my distraction, I stopped in front of the wrong set of flats. –SH

* * *

_23:51, 10 August_

Far be it from me to make something so important stressful for you. Why don’t you come up to my flat and we’ll talk about it in a logical, business-like fashion? –Molly

* * *

_23:57, 10 August_

That’s what I’ve been trying to do for the past hour. –SH

* * *

_00:01, 11 August_

And that’s why I’m teasing you.  But still, come up here. –Molly

* * *

_00:03, 11 August_

Not if you’re so offended by my methods. –SH

* * *

_00:06, 11 August_

You won’t come talk to me about it even though my answer is going to be yes? –Molly

* * *

_00:07, 11 August_

I’ll be at your flat in twenty-eight seconds. Take the chain off the door. –SH

* * *

 

 


	5. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good old-fashioned hero's tale.

* * *

The smell of damp and mold greeted Sherlock Holmes when he regained consciousness. Try though he did to quell them, tendrils of panic began curling outward from his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe and start cataloging his surroundings. It wouldn’t do to hyperventilate and pass out. He needed to observe if he wanted any chance to escape.

He was bound and gagged, tied to a chair in the middle of a windowless room. The stiff, thick ropes that secured him abraded his wrists and ankles, all of them tied to separate parts of the chair. Light filtering under the door and a dim bulb in ceiling cast a dingy pall on the room’s sparse furniture: a lumpy, stained mattress on the floor, a table with nothing on it, and another chair, its wicker seat fraying. The door itself was a heavy wood and boasted three Yale locks, all secured from outside of his new prison.

Footsteps approaching from outside of the room ratcheted up Sherlock’s alarm once more, and it didn’t ease when the door swung open. His eyes protested the sudden flooding of bright light, but finally, he made out the silhouette of a hulking man shuffling into the room.

Just as he got a good look at the man’s face—usually found in the vacant, hired muscle set—the man lifted a gun and brought it down on Sherlock’s head, and everything went black again.

* * *

The next time he came to, Sherlock began mentally retracing his steps.Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought about the last thing he could recall. It was foggy, but he was certain he’d been on a case. A boring one, but a case all the same.

“Canary Wharf. Wren Landing. Derrick McGuffin. Blackmail case.” He muttered to himself around his gag, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d been ambushed or answer the  _why_  of it. And he felt a tickling in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something. Something even more important that had worry nagging in the pit of his belly.

Just as he was certain he’d reached the verge of recollection, at least that important detail that danced in the corner of his mental periphery, the locks released again and the same man entered the room.

This time, he spoke. “Do you need to visit the W.C.?” Despite his hard-lived face and enormous stature, the man spoke with a rather clipped, public school accent. Sherlock couldn’t reconcile this, and it worried him just how much he might be slipping.

He dazedly shook his head no, before chastising his own stupidity. He could have observed more of wherever he was being held captive. Perhaps he could overpower this armed individual who outweighed him by thirty stone and appeared to have several knives tucked into his belt.

Sherlock wasn’t above a little frantic fantasizing in desperate times.

Shrugging, the man muttered, “Your loss,” before bringing the butt of his gun down on Sherlock’s head yet again.

* * *

The third time he came around, Sherlock’s gag was gone and his mouth felt like it had been filled with sand. The man stood over him, holding his gun in one hand and glass of water, complete with a neon-orange crazy straw. The man fumblingly stuck the straw in his captive’s mouth, and Sherlock drank as heavily as he could, considering that straw.

Once he’d drained the glass, he glared up at the man. “Why don’t you just kill me?”

Instead of answering him, the man grabbed hold of the room’s other chair and swung it around. Straddling it backwards and folding his arms casually across the top rung of the back, the man heaved a contented sigh, sounding as if he were a tired office drone, settling in with a pint after a hard day at work.

“I find guessing games to be extremely dull, particularly when I’m expected to play them with former heavyweight wrestlers who’ve lasting damage from percussive head injuries.” Sherlock’s tone was bored, but his eyes flew over the man again and again, looking for any twitch of reaction.

The other man made little expression as he pulled out a rather substantial knife and began running its tip under each of his rather filthy fingernails. Periodically, he would hum tonelessly, and then wipe his blade on his oily trousers, before moving on to his next nail.

Sherlock huffed. He wasn’t getting any more facts. He could tell the man wasn’t the normal Canary Wharf set, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still somewhere in or near the area.

He tried again. “What’s the point of keeping me here? Are you waiting for your boss to get here?”

His companion chuckled darkly as he tucked his knife back into his waistband. Finally, though, he spoke. “Oh, I am the boss. I just was waiting to see how much of an idiot Sherlock Holmes can be.”

“Yes, you’ve proven my idiocy. But I’m still not sure why.” It rankled to admit it. “If it’s a ransom you’re looking for, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man. Not too many acquaintances of mine would have access to funds of any substantial amount.”

“Oh, I dunno about that,” his captor drawled. “Big Brother does act as conservator to your estate. He’d probably be able to help me out in a pinch. Luckily for you, though, I am not in any need of money. Rather flush at the mo’. I’m just keeping you out of the way until some of my employees can safely do away with a pesky problem.”

Finally, a small piece clicked in Sherlock’s mind. “You’re blackmailing Derrick McGuffin.”

“That I am, my boy,” the man chortled, as if Sherlock had accused him of nothing more serious than being a Father Christmas impersonator.

“Who are you, then? Might as well tell me, if this is my new home.”

“I told you, I’m just keeping you here temporarily. You didn’t have a chance to get too close to the answers you were looking for, but it was a near-miss. Couldn’t have that, so I’m having some of my boys take care of a few things. When I get the all-clear from them, then we’ll get out of here.”

“You’ll let me go?” Sherlock asked.

The man chuckled again. “ _Sure_. I’ll let you go.”

He had the gall to reach forward and condescendingly pat Sherlock on the head.

“Why are you keeping me alive for now?”

“Can’t have too many bodies pop up at once,” the man shrugged. “People might get suspicious. Good things come to those who wait, I was raised to believe.”

When Sherlock opened his mouth pithily reply, the abductor stuffed a filthy rag in it and tied the gag once more.

Sherlock had time to roll his eyes at the approaching gun’s butt. Just as he went under for the third time, he remembered that he hadn’t been alone when he’d started investigating the McGuffin case. But then darkness consumed him and he knew no more.

* * *

After what was surely either three hours or three days, Sherlock blearily came awake to sounds of shouting in the room beyond his and then an enormous thump, as if something large had fallen over. He waited, unsure if his promised end had finally arrived as he listened to the locks snick open.

The door swung open yet again, but this time, instead of his jailor, a much smaller person ran into the room.

She was dressed as she would for any normal day of work. Her hair was plaited, her jumper cheerful and bright, and the rest of her clothes comfortably loose. The only real difference that Sherlock could see was that she was wielding a syringe the same way someone else might a butcher’s knife.

It all came flooding back. He definitely hadn’t been alone when he’d let himself into that darkened flat that looked ove the wharf. He now remembered watching her terrified eyes gleaming as they peeked over the edge of the sofa as someone knocked him over the head.

And now, here she was.

He watched her—wide-eyed he was fairly certain—as she hurried over to him. Dropping her apparent weapon of choice, she offered him a shaky, adrenaline-fueled smile as she quickly pulled the gag from his mouth.

Before Sherlock could speak, she said, “I’m Molly Hooper. I’m here to rescue you.”

He stared at her as she moved quickly around him. “I know who you are. Amnesia doesn’t work that way.”

“It was a reference to Star Wa—never mind. Let’s go.” She started tugging on his hand. It was only then that he realized she’d managed to cut off all of his bindings. Pins and needles shot up and down his limbs as they protested after being held immobile for so long, but he staggered to his feet.

Molly noticed his difficulties and looped his arm around her shoulders, though she didn’t slow her pace as she led him out of the room. As they passed into the anteroom of what appeared to be a basement office, Sherlock saw the prone form of his captor sprawled on the floor.

“Did you kill him?” he croaked as they skirted around the man and made it through the front door. Molly was distracted, leading him down fluorescent-lighted hallway and up a cement staircase.

Finally answering his question, though, she tutted, “No, of course not. I nicked some Propofol from the surgical unit at Barts. Enough to knock out a blue whale, probably. Could lose my job over that, so I’m hoping you’ll convince your brother to help me out.”

He waved his hand impatiently, or as best he could considering how sluggishly the blood was returning to the neglected appendage. “Done. How did you find me?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but notice a pleased flush suffusing her cheeks. “I went and spoke to Derrick McGuffin as soon as the coast was clear after they took you. He mentioned that his predilection for prostitutes was something his family would never forgive him for. He said earlier that no one knew, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he insisted. That’s why I finally agreed to take the case. Because he swore the only person who knew was the lady whose services he solicited regularly, and she’s been rather conspicuously dead these past three weeks.”

Molly nodded as she led him out into the night air and over to her car, parked crookedly, half on the walkway in front of the building. “Exactly. Well, it turns out that there were a few people more than just a dead hooker who were in the know. His older brother, Colm, for starters. Here, get in. We’re going to drive a bit out of the way and wait for the police. I called them on the way, but they’re certainly taking their sweet time. They were making sure Derrick didn’t get knocked off, but still.”

Sherlock groaned and slumped into the car seat. “That was Colm McGuffin you so handily overtook back in the office, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Molly said, leaning over him to fasten his seatbelt.

Before she could pull away and straighten, Sherlock flopped his rubbery hand over the back of her neck. He was fairly certain he was being gentle. She didn’t wince, at least.

“Hey,” he muttered.

“Yes?”

“You came for me.” The adrenaline was ebbing, and he felt wooziness start to overtake him.

Molly nodded somberly. “I had to save you.”

Sherlock tugged her head closer to his and kissed her sloppily on the mouth. “You’re my hero,” he mumbled against her lips.

She drew back slightly and stroked a hand over his hair, avoiding the multitudes of goose eggs that Colm McGuffin had raised. “You have a concussion and won’t remember this conversation, I bet. Rest assured that I will remind you of it as often as possible.”

“Heroes are s’posed t’be humble,” he protested.

“I merely learned by example, my love,” Molly replied, pecking him on the forehead.


	6. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he thinks he could spend his life with her.

* * *

She sings in the shower. Her voice is passable at best, but she trills unabashedly as she works shampoo through her long hair. As far as he can tell, there’s no overarching theme in her song choice; she just grabs whatever tune comes to mind next.

He watches her silently, lurking just out of the reach of the water’s spray, the shower tiles cold where they press into his bare skin. He studies the play of muscles in her back. They flex and release with the movement of her raised arms, and his fingers itch to run along their sinew, to see if he can learn her life through the shape and feel of her.

As she scrubs at her hair, she turns her head slightly so she can see him over her shoulder after she finishes her latest tune. “You might like that band. They were all classical musicians who studied at Julliard before they decided to form a rock ensemble, instead.”

She begins humming the same song again as she ducks into the water to wash away the shampoo. Some of the notes gurgle through the water that runs over her lips and he wonders how she could be willing to let such a broken man into her life and into her shower. How are the shards that comprise his whole not scratching the ceramic that is so cool against his back?

To him, she’s like sea glass, smooth-edged but strong and able to easily withstand tide and squall. How does his harsh, splintered self not scratch her, or at least cause her to weather badly?

Her fingers wrapping around his wrist pull him from his rumination. She tugs him forward and muscles him under the shower spray. The contrast from cold tile to warm water nearly makes him jump, but he contains his startled reaction. The quirk of her mouth tells him he isn’t fooling her, but he just eyes her coolly, daring her to say something about it.

She doesn’t. Instead, she starts singing again as she pushes him further under the spray. She reaches around him, grabbing her shampoo bottle. As she squeezes a puddle of the amber goo into her hand (its scent is fake vanilla, but he can’t bring himself to ask her why she could possibly want to smell like baked goods), she pauses mid-verse to issue a command.

“Wet your hair down,” she instructs.

He complies, but when she stretches up, tugs his head down a bit, and begins firmly massaging the shampoo into his hair, he murmurs, “You’re a bit of a bully.”

He can’t force his tone into anything sounding remotely unkind or even bothered by this fact.

Her mouth purses in thought, not consternation, at his accusation. “Guess so,” she agrees. “Back under,” and she pushes him lightly so that the water washes away the shampoo.

He blinks at her through his wet fringe that now hangs over his eyes, water sluicing down his face, and she stares at him for a moment before a perfect, happy smile spreads across her face. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might be smiling back at her, just a little.

She steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around his middle. Her skin slides against his, a soggy facsimile of the way they move together in the quiet dark of her bed. His own arms find their way around her in return and they stand there even as the water begins to cool around them.

A pressure against the slight concave of his sternum has him looking down, and her soft eyes meet his as she keeps her lips pressed to his chest.

He thinks to himself—abashedly—that each touch and kindness from her is like a droplet of glue, holding the shards of him together.

And maybe, just maybe, he does the same for her.

* * *

 


	7. Dragon Slayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: Can I provide a Sherlolly prompt (I love your writing!)? Sherlock never understood why John and Lestrade called him "possesive" and "overprotective" in regards to Molly; isn't that how all men acted when in love?
> 
> Also, see if you can spot the Meg Cabot reference!

* * *

He watches Molly Hooper give Expert Witness testimony, calmly detailing the trauma a murder victim sustained and explaining why it proved fatal. She is the picture of professionalism; articulate and confident. Warring with the pride and mild arousal he feels whenever she talks pathology is a flickering of irritation.

His eyes keep moving over to the defendant. Sherlock Holmes has no doubt that the man is guilty of the crimes for which he now stands trial, and the way the lowlife stares Molly down is, frankly, annoying. It doesn’t matter that the man has had the same, cantankerous expression for every person brought forward by Prosecution. When directed at her, it is a concern.

John Watson, sitting next to him in the gallery, notices the direction of Sherlock’s glare and elbows him, mouthing, “What is it?”

Sherlock’s twitches his shoulders as a way deflect his friend’s question and in an attempt to shrug off his own unease. Molly is in the public eye far more than the role of a forensic pathologist should necessitate. He conveniently overlooks the fact that giving testimony in court is actually one of the main parts of her job description. The very word ‘forensic’ means methodology in crime investigation, after all.

After the Defense makes a weak attempt at cross examining Molly, the judge calls for a lunch recess. Sherlock shoots up from his seat, tugging down his jacket and hurrying out of the courtroom. He ignores John’s annoyed scramble to catch up with him as he all but runs down the stairs. They find Molly standing just outside of the lower courtroom, shaking hands with the head of Prosecution.

Sherlock offers the other woman a tight, insincere smile before stepping in between her and Molly. To say this doesn’t impress the good doctor would likely be an understatement. Her eyes narrow and she uses her arm to muscle him over to her side.

“Sorry. You’ve met Sherlock Holmes?” she says politely to the barrister.

The woman blinks at the two of them (and John, rolling his eyes just beyond them), clearly confused by what has just transpired. “I don’t believe so. Pleasure.” Her tone suggests it’s anything but. “I don’t think we have anything more right now, Molly. We just appreciate your testimony. I know these court appearances can be an inconvenience, but you’ve helped us so much.”

Molly smiles, pleased. “I’m glad I could assist. I enjoy it. Gives me a chance to get out of the lab.”

“You don’t want to stretch yourself too thin, Molly. You’re busy enough as Assistant Dean. There are plenty who could testify,” Sherlock interjects pointedly. The lab is quite secure. He chastises himself for not thinking of playing the “You’re too busy and important for this nonsense” card before.

She side-eyes him—the downward twitch of her mouth indicating that she’s not thrilled with his input—before she once again smiles at the lawyer. “Trust me, this was no inconvenience. I had more than enough time to come here.”

Perhaps realizing that she might be about the witness a quarrel, the barrister excuses herself, telling Molly that they’ll be in contact if she’s called back to the stand or needed for another case.

As soon as the woman’s heels clack away, Molly turns on Sherlock. “What the hell was that about? I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I like to see some of my cases through to the end,” he says, trying to keep his tone from sounding too self-important.

Molly starts to nod, but then stops, her brow furrowing. “You weren’t involved in this case. It was handled entirely through the Met.”

He tries to change the subject, suggesting lunch, but just then the door to the courtroom opens again. The entire Defense team, murderer included, comes out. Sherlock’s lip curls and he pushes Molly back around the pillar that they stand beside.

Noticing the direction of his gaze (he’s keeping a stony eye on the murderer), Molly cranes her neck to peer around Sherlock. When she looks back at him, her face is once again rife with annoyance. “Really?”

“Your hair looks lovely today. I do like it when you wear it down,” Sherlock dissembles, smoothing a hand down the back of her head and then cupping her neck. He smiles at her charmingly as he rubs her pulse with his thumb.

“Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?” John asks. He’s sidled up alongside the pair and is looking a bit amused by the entire thing.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the attention he’s lavishing on Molly does nothing to distract her. “I don’t have to tell you that I’m perfectly safe here. Michael Clarke wasn’t going to leap across the room and try to strangle me. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order.”

“Yeah,” John says brightly. “It wouldn’t happen like that. Clarke’s M.O. is poison.”

Ignoring his friend, Sherlock huffs, “You don’t know what a depraved murderer will do under duress, Molly.”

“A depraved murderer who is trying to prove that he’s innocent. It wouldn’t look too good if he flies off in a fit of rage against a testifying witness. Not to mention the fact that there were plenty of security guards in the room with us.”

“Useless buffoons,” Sherlock corrects.

Sighing, Molly rubs the bridge of her nose. “I’m not going to stop doing my job, Sherlock. I wouldn’t ask that of you, and I expect the same in return.”

“Yes, but see, I’m equipped to handle dangerous criminals. You’re not.”

“You might want to tread carefully there, mate,” John leans in to add helpfully.

Sherlock crinkles his nose. “She understands what I’m saying.”

“Oh, no, John is right. You forget that I’m often armed with bone saws and scalpels. Not to mention the fact that I’ve taken plenty of self-defense classes. I’ve never felt like I was in danger before, and today isn’t the day that changes.”

“But just think how secure the lab and morgue are,” Sherlock tries, “out of the public eye, away from scum like Clarke.”

Molly leans forward, cupping Sherlock’s elbows to ensure that he meets her eyes. “Clarke murdered his partner in an attempt to cover up an embezzling scheme. This wasn’t some psychotic, impulse kill.”

“But there are others who do kill impulsively, and what if you enrage them?” he asks, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice.

“This argument is circular, Sherlock, and we’ve never gotten anywhere with it.”

“We would if you’d just agree with me.”

Molly growls low in her throat. “You know what you are? You’re a baby licker!”

John and Sherlock stare at her. “I don’t lick babies,” Sherlock says, scandalized. “I avoid even being in the same room as babies, for the most part.” She baffles him. Sometimes he finds it scintillating. Not today.

But Molly shakes her head. “You’re like this red panda in a zoo several years ago. She had a baby and she got so worried about it that she’d never let it go. She just sat there, licking it, until its fur started coming out. Eventually, zookeepers had to take it away from her.”

Sherlock isn’t sure which is more insulting: that she’s just compared him to a zoo animal or that she is insinuating that someone is going to take her away. “Just because I want to make sure you are safe doesn’t put me on par with an obsessive compulsive red panda.”

She mutters, “Could have fooled me,” and then more loudly says, “The thing is, Sherlock, one of the reasons we work so well is because we both value our independence. You don’t see me as some sort of possession, and that’s very important to me. But if you look hard enough, there’s a threat in everything. If you start trying to wrap me in wool to protect me from everything, it will stifle me. I have to live, work and exist in the world around me. I can’t just be put in a protective bubble because of every potential threat. I’ve managed not to get hit by any buses or stray bullets in the first thirty-three years of my life, and I feel pretty confident in my abilities to keep that record accruing.”

“But… I thought that I was supposed to be overprotective of you,” he says, still befuddled. He hates that feeling.

“Supposed?” Molly asks, looking confused.

He waves his hand. “You know, in romantic relationships. I’m supposed to act like a caveman. I’ve observed it. Apparently it’s expected.”

Molly smiles gently at him. “Some men think that’s the only way women can survive. Some women are raised being told they should expect it. But I don’t. I want a partner, not a guard dog. I can fight most of my own battles. ”

Deflating, Sherlock says, “It made some sense. I started looking for threats, and then I started seeing them and… worrying about you.”

“I love that you care about me and want me to be safe. And if I ever feel like I’m in over my head, I know you’ll help protect me.”

"Sounds like someone you know, Sherlock,” John interjects, nodding his head toward Molly.

“I would slay dragons for you,” she says solemnly.

Sherlock shuffles his feet abashedly, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “Dragons don’t exis—”

“You know what I mean,” she cuts him off while glancing at her watch. “I need to head back to Barts now. I’ll come round after my shift. Try not to shoot anything in the meantime.” Hooking her fingers into the lapels of his jacket, Molly tugs him down to her for a kiss.

He pulls away and whispers something filthy to her before pecking her cheek. Her face floods with color and she darts a glance over at John to make sure he didn’t hear, but their friend is either oblivious or furiously pretending to be.

They go their separate ways outside of the Bailey, Molly walking back toward the hospital and Sherlock and John hailing a taxi.

"You know, I’m not sure that’s anatomically possible,” John says conversationally as they climb into the waiting car.

“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock smirks.

* * *

 


	8. Run, Sherlock, Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous wrote: Sherlolly prompt: Sherlock had never run so fast as the day when there was a bomb threat at St Barts and he couldn't get a hold of Molly.

* * *

**Four blocks.**

His feet pound on pavement, echoing off of the silent street. His lungs burn in his chest; a greasy, sickening feeling.

Terror would have his heart pounding if the running didn’t.

_Don’t stop. Speed up. Don’t slow down. Speed up. God. Damn. It. Speed. Up._

Each step sends shocks of impact up his legs. He spends a nanosecond of each connection between foot and ground thinking he’s already too late, that the vibrations are coming from further afield.

So far, he’s been wrong. He spends the remainder of each second in relief before the next step.

**Three blocks.**

_“I have to work late tonight.”_

_“Because that’s the shift they scheduled me for.”_

_“I kind of like it. I get more done when there are fewer people around.”_

_“It’s nothing new, Sherlock. I’ve helped you at the hospital plenty of times in the middle of the night. Suddenly it’s inconvenient for you?”_

_“I’m laughing because I know exactly what you want with me.”_

_“I’d suggest you have a little patience. We’ll have all of tomorrow.”_

_“What will I do with you? It’s too depraved to say over the phone. Just know it involves chocolate, eggs, and mocha frosting.”_

_“Well, yes, the depravity will actually be us making John’s birthday cake. His party’s tomorrow and I volunteered us. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make the bake time interesting.”_

_“Stuff it, Holmes.”_

_“Love you.”_

**Two blocks.**

The Quavers fell out somewhere along the way; a stupid joke for her. But then that call came and the joke fell from his lips and his pocket before he even got the chance to tell it.

Now, he runs.

The streets are empty, no traffic. Too late for pub-crawlers, too early for delivery lorries. No taxis in the past five blocks.

He can see the glow of emergency lights bouncing off of the low, October clouds overhead.

He has to get there in time. He  _has_  to.

He doesn’t know if he will.

**One block.**

Barts looms up ahead, just out of reach, no matter how hard he pulls at the earth with the soles of his shoes.

Terror doesn’t sit well with him. He’s not handled it well in the past. Hell, the last time he was terrified, he threw himself from the roof of the building he now runs toward.

But there are no rescues to be had. No solution other than getting there and seeing her safe and unscathed.

He manages to find that one last push and runs faster.

Finally— _finally_ —he makes it.

Staff and students rush to evacuate the hospital; no easy feat, what with the severity of sickness that passes through Barts’ halls. 

Ironically, this has nothing to do with him. He spends his time enraging the criminal underbelly of the city, only to learn that the threat currently terrorizing his fiancée’s place of work comes from a disgruntled employee. In some ways, it’s a relief. In others, it’s an unknown element. He can’t say which he prefers.

He runs to the incident commander, a young constable who sighs when she sees him coming her way. She opens her mouth to say something to him, adopting a stern expression, when someone calling his name stops him in his tracks.

He turns and there she is, running to him.

The first responders’ emergency lights glance off her skin, bathing her in the reds and blues of his sheer, utter relief.

* * *

 

 


	9. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Fill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous wrote: "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue."

* * *

**_Old_ **

* * *

Mary Watson and Mrs. Hudson watched Molly in the mirror as she eyed herself critically.

“I know it’s dated,” she assured them, “but it was my mum’s. Plus, it’s not like I’ve exactly had much time to plan this.”

Mary snorted. “I’ll say.”

Turning to stare balefully at her friend over her shoulder, Molly defended herself. “Your wedding was lovely. I enjoyed every moment of it. But that type of event just isn’t my style. And it’s especially not my groom’s.”

“I know,” Mary hurried to amend. “As much as I like to imagine Sherlock going to meet with florists and cake decorators, this fits you two better. Plus, having only an hour’s notice probably limits the chances of his getting sidetracked by a case.”

“Very true.”  Molly turned back to look in the mirror. She tugged at the cuffs of the dress’ long, lace sleeves. “It’s bordering on  _too_  rushed, I know. I’m thinking about telling people that I’ve gotten Sherlock ‘in trouble’ and am saving him from ruin, but most people probably wouldn’t see the humor in it.”

“I never thought I’d see Sherlock Holmes eager to marry anyone. This will set some tongues wagging,” Mrs. Hudson said as she bent to place a discreet safety pin in the waist of the gown as Mary began laying out hair pins and makeup.

Molly shrugged and grinned. “Who cares? Marriage because of a baby is such an old fashioned notion. Although… it might be fun to wander around caressing my stomach all the time. Let anyone who still worries about things like that be confused when no happy event occurs in eight or nine months’ time.”

“That’s delightfully evil of you,” Mary pondered as she pushed Molly down into the vanity chair and began pulling a brush through her hair.

* * *

**_Borrowed_ **

* * *

“I couldn’t  do that!”

“Of course you could. It’s not been worn in ages and that’s just a travesty,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, thrusting the proffered item into Molly’s hands.

Taking it and laying it across her palm, Molly stared at the emerald pendant, set in a simple sterling silver base. It was clearly very old and its fragile elegance made her nervous to handle it.

"My father spent too much money on it as a wedding gift to my mother. They were poor as could be, and my mother was always much more practical about such things. But he insisted, and told her wanted her to have something beautiful that she could pass down to their daughter at her wedding."

Never having been one given to jewels, Molly understood why a practical person might balk at such an expense. But she could also admit that she loved the pendant the moment Mrs. Hudson drew it out of its velvet case.

"Did you wear it for your wedding?" she murmured.

Mrs. Hudson actually cackled. “Bless me, no! We eloped to Florida, because Bruce thought it would be terribly romantic. It’s a good thing I didn’t wear it, because I probably would have had to burn it to rid it of some ominous curse.”

Molly offered Mrs. Hudson a weak smile. She’d never asked Sherlock’s landlady the details of her marriage, but she’d picked up on enough subtext to know that it was a good, good thing that it had ended.

Deciding to dispel the suddenly somber mood, Molly turned around, her back now to Mrs. Hudson. “Would you put it on?”

Nodding, looking suspiciously misty-eyed, Mrs. Hudson brought the delicate chain around her neck and clasped it in place, patting her shoulders to let her know it was secured.

Straightening, Molly turned back to face the dear woman. “I’ll take care of it and return it to you as soon as the ceremony’s done.”

But Mrs. Hudson was already shaking her head. “You keep it.”

"Mrs. Hudson—" Molly objected.

"If it makes you uneasy to accept it as a gift, let’s just call it a permanent loan, then. Perhaps someday you’ll have a daughter who can wear it, too."

Shyly, Molly touched her fingertips to the pendant. “What were your parents’ names?” she asked curiously, wanting somehow to hold a bit of the necklace’s history with her.

"Elaine was my mother and William was my father," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at a distant memory.

"Elaine and William," Molly murmured, watching the morning light catch on the emerald.

* * *

**_Blue_ **

* * *

"Where’s Mary?" Molly wondered. "We have to leave in ten minutes."

"I’m here! I’m here!" Mary’s voice called out. As pounding footsteps on the stairs grew nearer, her voice got louder. "I can’t find those shoes anywhere, Molly. Are you sure they’re not in your closet?"

Molly shrugged. “Maybe? If not, I have plenty others to choose from in there. There are some suede loafers that might be comfortab—”

"You are not wearing loafers to your wedding," Mary interrupted. "I have to draw the line somewhere, and if this is it, so be it." She strode off to the bedroom without another word.

Molly shrugged at Mrs. Hudson.

A few moments passed, punctuated by a noise that could only be Mary shucking shoes over her shoulder as she dug for the right pair. Finally she made a triumphant crowing noise.

Reemerging from the back hall, she carried a pair of blue ballet flats. “These will do perfectly.”

Molly wrinkled her nose. “Aren’t they awfully twee? I got them for a costume party.”

Mary merely arched and eyebrow. “I hope the irony isn’t lost on you that you’re asking if the shoes are too twee while wearing something tantamount to whipped cream in fabric form.”

Staring at the shoes, Molly thought about it before nodding. “Fair enough.”

A slamming door downstairs drew their attention away from the shoes, and Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together excitedly. “The boys are here!”

* * *

**_New_ **

* * *

John smiled warmly at Molly when he walked into the room. “You look beautiful. I have the arse you’ve agreed to marry waiting by the front door. I wasn’t sure if you’d want him to see you before the ceremony or not.”

Sherlock’s voice carried up the staircase. “That has to be the most ridiculous superstition I’ve ever heard. Besides, I’ve already seen Molly today. I saw rather a lot of her in bed this morning when we—“

“Yes, love. You did,” Molly interrupted loudly.  Smiling sheepishly, she turned and patted John on the shoulder. “I’m guessing it took some threat of blackmail to get him to stay down there, but I really don’t mind if he sees me. I thought we’d all walk to the Register Office together.”

Before she’d even finished her sentence, Sherlock was striding into the room. He looked boredly at everyone else before turning to gaze at Molly.

His lips curved into a rare grin. “It’s not even close to what you described.”

“I guess my memory decided to exaggerate a few extra flounces. I never bothered to take the dress out of its preservation box until now,” Molly explained with a small laugh.

Still smiling, a bit shyly now, Sherlock said, “You’re lovely.”

They beamed at each other for several moments.

A sniffle had the couple looking to Mrs. Hudson, but she was dry-eyed, looking across the room with a fond expression on her face.  Following her gaze, they found John intensely studying a curtain tassel.

Realizing that everyone was looking at him, he cleared his throat. “Shall we be off?”

Bundling into their coats to ward off the early spring chill, the party tromped down the stairs and out onto the Baker Street.  If any passersby thought it odd to find a woman in a 1970s wedding gown wandering down the pavement on a Thursday morning, they didn’t comment.

Just as the Register Office came in sight (they could just make out the forms of Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan—Molly had insisted on her presence, to Sherlock’s chagrin—and Mycroft Holmes milling in front of the building), Mary suddenly cursed loudly, drawing a nasty glare from a man walking by pushing a pushchair.

“What?” everyone asked her at once, with varying degrees of alarm.

“Something new!” she explained.

“Something knew what?” Sherlock asked, annoyed by the delay.

Rolling her eyes, Mary waved a hand over Molly’s form. “Something old, something new, something borrowed something blue? We have everything else, but we forgot something new for Molly to wear or carry with her. I don’t suppose your pants are new?” she asked Molly hopefully.

Molly shook her head.

Groaning, Sherlock rounded on Mary. “Another superstition? Haven’t we had enough of those to last a lifetime?”

Mary crossed her arms mulishly and refused to concede.

Sighing gustily, Sherlock looked around for any form of inspiration. With an “Ah ha,” he grabbed Molly’s hand and tugged her down a narrow side street.

The flowers in that particular stall were a little past peak, most of them tiredly drooping in the cold air. All except for one bundle of blooms in the center of the florist’s makeshift display. The gerbera daisies were a bright festoon amidst the more sedate reds and whites surrounding  them, and Molly smiled brightly when she saw them.

Sherlock released her hand to dig out his wallet, handing a £50 note to the vendor.  “No need to waste our time counting out change,” he instructed as the man’s hands moved toward his money purse. “Your undiagnosed arthritis will only slow us down and we really must be going before someone decides that we need a children’s choir to serenade us into the building.”

Rolling her eyes, Molly gratefully accepted the bouquet from the man with a mouthed  _Sorry_.

Plucking a red daisy from the bundle, she snapped the stem to shorten it (ignoring the pained grimace of the florist) and tucked it into the lapel pocket of Sherlock’s suit jacket.  She patted his chest and then transferred her bouquet to her left hand, holding her right back out to him.

“Shall we wed, Mr. Holmes?” she asked cheerfully.

He laced his fingers with hers. “I believe we shall, Dr. Hooper.”

* * *

**Finis**


	10. Knick Knacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous wrote: Sherlolly prompt? Giraffes.

* * *

Molly Hooper clapped her hands together, futilely trying to warm them in the chilly morning air. She shot a pointed look at the man seated next to her on the bench, but Sherlock Holmes stared straight ahead obliviously, sipping coffee from a paper cup and grimacing before slurping down some more.

"I’m cold."

She knew she didn’t sound happy. But did  _Sherlock_  notice that she didn’t sound happy? That was the real question.

Instead of responding, he reached over and tapped her on the back twice with the flat of his hand.

She stared at him. “What was that about?”

He shrugged, still staring at the shop across from the bench they currently occupied. “I was trying to warm you up.”

"The same way you might burp a baby," she suggested.

"What baby?" he asked absently.

With a sigh, Molly scooted closer to Sherlock until her side was pressed against his. He leaned a little into her, but his focus was still on the blurry form of the shopkeeper, just visible through the dirty front window.

"I’m just not sure why I’m here. I told you I didn’t have my contact lenses in when you swooped into my flat and dragged me away. I can’t actually see anything."

"You still might observe something crucial."

She snorted, and then gave a startled gasp. “Look! Up in the sky!”

He looked up, scanning the sky furiously. “What?! What is it?!”

"It’s a bird!"

"Molly…."

"It’s a plane!"

"Molly." Now he just sounded annoyed.

"No! It’s… yeah, it’s just a bird. Or a blurry, bird-shaped thing."

As she giggled madly, Sherlock expelled a put-upon puff of air. “Your eyesight isn’t  _that_  bad.”

"Oh really?" she chortled. "Did you borrow my eyeballs recently? They did burn a bit this morning. I just thought they were dry. You put them in the microwave, didn’t you?"

"That’s not even remotely funny."

"Au contraire, mon frère," Molly said, still gleeful.

Sherlock rolled his head on his neck to look at her. “It’s a good thing I’m not  _ton fr_ _è_ _re,_ or a lot of our interactions of late would be illegal.”

"Good point," she conceded with a lecherous waggle of her eyebrows.

Clearly, he’d had about as much of her ‘tomfoolery’ (a word he used once when complaining about some noisy teenagers in the flat beneath Molly’s, and she vowed never to let him forget it) as he could take, for he stood from the bench.

Molly immediately frowned at the draught of chilly air hitting her where Sherlock’s warmth had previously pressed against her.

"I’m going to hazard going in." He started to stride away, calling over his shoulder as he went, "Feel free to stay out here in the cold, making wisecracks. I’d rather you come with me, but…." He offered her a jaunty shrug.

Hurrying up from the bench, she trotted up alongside where he stood, waiting for a break in traffic. “So, what should I be squinting for?”

As they set out across the road, he explained. “The charity that owns this shop is a front for a looting ring. I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure how. Several priceless Norse fertility carvings have gone missing from a nearby museum, and the shop owner is the least common denominator between the two. He volunteers at one and owns the other.”

"You’ll probably take one look inside and figure it out. You’re rather brilliant like that."

A dimple appeared in his cheek as he gave her a small smile. He reached down and tugged her arm up to link with his. “We’re looking for a gift for my mother. You don’t like her, so you keep wandering off to look at other trinkets, but keep your eyes open.”

"Roger that, oh captain, my captain," Molly beamed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the shop door, waving her in ahead of him.

Though the shop touted itself as an antique merchant, most of its tchotchkes seemed to consist of previous, charity shop purchases that were then re-cast aside. It had the musty smell of such places, and its dim lighting made it that much harder for Molly to see anything.

The shopkeeper may have glowered at the couple as they moved beyond the front aisle into the shop (Molly couldn’t tell, to her myopic chagrin). He certainly didn’t rush to welcome them.

Remembering that she needed to be playing a part, Molly turned to Sherlock. “Have you found anything yet?” She almost wished she had some gum to smack on, to really give her character depth.

Sherlock glanced at her. “We just got here, Darling. What do you think about a necklace? They seem to have a nice display by the till.”

Humming disinterestedly, she pulled her arm loose from his and meandered into a side aisle. She waited a few beats and then called out, “Snickerdoodle, what do you think about going retro with our dishes? I just found a fab set of Fiestaware.”

Sherlock, who’d been passing by her row, came to a stop and mouthed,  _Snickerdoodle?_

She gave him a helpless shrug. She’d not done much undercover work before. So sue her.

With a shake of his head, he continued on and she wandered further into the shelves, staring at the blurry, somewhat ominous forms of ceramic geese figurines and old cookware.

“Do you think Mother would like an antique key?” Sherlock’s voice carried from the other side of the shop.

Noticing the shopkeeper watching her beadily, Molly muttered loudly enough for him to hear, “Maybe she’d like an antique broomstick to ride around on,” and shot the stranger an exasperated look.

He wasn’t moved to commiserate with her feigned Mother-in-Law problems.

Giving up trying to win him over, she noticed a door that could only lead to a storage or break room. She wandered to the back of the shop, passing Sherlock, who lay flat on his stomach out of sight of the clerk, peering under a shelving unit.

Taking time to ‘admire’ things as she passed, she finally reached the door. It was open only a crack, allowing very little light into the room beyond. She squinted into its shadowy depths. Quietly, so quietly, she pushed the door open a little further. Thankfully, it didn’t squeak or creak, but t only opened an inch further. So she reached forward to nudge it open a bit further.

And choked on a gasp as the shopkeeper’s voice sounded right behind her.

“Problem, Miss?” the greasy-voiced man asked.

She smiled weakly back at him. “No, no. I thought I saw a”—her eyes scanned the area around her for inspiration—“a melodica. They’re so hard to come across. But it was just a pencil case decorated to look like a piano.”

The shopkeeper stared at her assessingly for several moments before he finally  _hmmph_ ed and wandered back to the till.

As soon as she was certain he was adequately distracted, Molly hurried over to Sherlock, who was crawling around, looking at the backs of the lower shelves.

“There’s something in that room,” she muttered, crouching down so he’d hear her.

Spryly, he hopped back up to his feet and tugged her upright with him. “Which shelf? What did you see?” he asked excitedly.

“The waist-high shelf just inside the door. I think it was one of the fertility statues. It was certainly phallic shaped.”

Sherlock made a small noise of triumph before barreling over to the shop owner. “It’s my understanding that you deal in rare antiquities.”

“Everything in this shop is an antique, sir,” the man said, bored with it all.

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “You know I’m talking about something worth far more than some old biddy’s lace tablecloth. Something of the cart cult persuasion, perhaps?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think it’s time you leave,” the other man sniffed.

Laughing sarcastically, Sherlock turned and strode back to the aft room. “You don’t know what I’m talking about? Then how do you explain”—he arched his eyebrows as he reached just into the room, blindly grasped the figurine on the shelf and held it triumphantly over his head—“this?!”

Molly realized her mistake at the same time as Sherlock. He lowered his hand and stared, lip curled in disgust. She edged closer, squinting to get a better look.

The figurine was carved. It was hewn from a dark wood and the craftsmanship was passably good.

Whoever carved it certainly had a fine eye for the shape and musculature of the noble giraffe.

The bright, day-glow orange and pink spots were somehow less realistic.

It had been some forlorn souvenir from the Wild Kingdom Theme Park, whose name was proudly emblazoned on a sticker on the bottom of the carving.

“Oh,” Molly said.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.

“Get out,” the shopkeeper said, his voice vibrating with anger.

Gingerly, Sherlock placed the giraffe on a nearby shelf, patting it for effect, and then he came forward to take Molly’s hand.

Coughing and clearing their throats, they shuffled out of the shop and hurried away, stopping when they’d made it half a block away.

“I’m going to get Lasik surgery,” Molly said definitively.

“Not necessary. But next time, do mention if you don’t have your contacts in before we embark on an investigation.”

She stared at him. “Seriously? That was the  _only_  thing I told you this morning before we left my flat.”

Not looking particularly bothered to recall any such thing, Sherlock stared back down toward the shop as he pulled out his phone. “I guess it’s a good thing I observed other, illegal things in that shop, or that might have been humiliating.”

“Might have been,” Molly muttered, frustrated. “I’m going to go home now, Sherlock. Perhaps I’ll see you later tonight?”

He waved absently as he punched in a number and put his mobile to his ear, already wandering away.

Sighing, she turned and made her way back toward the closest tube station, hoping she could read the signs well enough to go the right direction on the Piccadilly. She really didn’t want to end up in Cockfosters, no matter how much the name usually made her laugh.

* * *

Coming out of her steamy bathroom late that night, Molly shoved her glasses onto her face, only to curse and take them off again when they fogged over. She stumbled around her bedroom, yanking out the first pajama pants and t-shirt she encountered and tugging them on.

Tiredly rubbing at her hair with a towel, she wandered out of her room, hoping to find something small for a snack. Just before she turned off of the lounge into the kitchen, something on her mantle distracted her. Frowning, she walked toward it, not sure what she was (blurrily) seeing.

Finally, when her nose was nearly pressed to it, Molly recognized the intrusive item. She might have been alarmed had she not recognized the handwriting on the note leaning drunkenly against its base.

Unfolding the missive and reading the hasty scrawl, she let out a peal of laughter and gazed fondly at her new, horrid giraffe carving.

* * *

_Nicked this during the police raid. Seemed a pity to let such fine art go to waste._

_~~Your Snickerdood~~ _

_No. I can’t even write it as a joke._

_Your Sherlock_

* * *

 


	11. Radar Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous wrote: Sherlolly prompt: Sherlock is stuck at an airport for whatever reason when he is finds out Molly has been taken to the ER after being seriously hurt after falling down a flight of stairs. Chaos results as he tries to get to her as fast as possible.
> 
> \--  
> This is named after a classic Golden Earring song (maybe their only classic? IDK).

* * *

He eyed the gate attendants as he angrily ignored another call from an unknown number on his mobile. Not a patient man to begin with, Sherlock Holmes only felt his nerves fray more as the digital numbers at the top of his mobile’s screen cheerfully informed him that he should have been home an hour ago. He  _could_ have been home an hour ago if the pilots with that particular airline weren’t such cowards. His flight out of Brussels had been delayed because of weather concerns.

_Weather concerns_. Glancing out of the nearest floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked an empty tarmac, Sherlock sniffed. He’d seen more snow in a department store holiday display. But when he’d helpfully pointed this out to the airline personnel, his salient arguments had been rebuffed by such petty things as ‘airport rules’ and ‘passenger and crew safety’.

It was ridiculous.

Of course it would have to snow tonight, of all nights. He’d been in Belgium for the past five, temperate days, doing work for Mycroft. He’d solved the case that morning, but decided to delay his return in order to partake in a tour of the Chocolate Museum in Bruges. It was a mistake on several counts. A man who has not eaten in several days should damn well expect at least one, all-you-can-eat chocolate fountain. But no. The museum was nothing like that, and Sherlock was forced to have lunch in a  _pub_. He didn’t even like Belgian beer.

And now here he was, missing his bed, missing his dressing gown, missing his Moll—

“Attention passengers on Brussels Airlines flight 309A to London,” the mewling desk attendant said into the PA, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. “We regret to inform you that all flights out of Brussels Airport have been cancelled due to the continued snowfall. Please see the nearest gate attendant, and we will rebook you on the earliest available flight tomorrow. We can also gladly provide you with a list of nearby accommodations. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Several people around Sherlock groaned, but he let out an incredulous, “Oh for god’s sake,” earning him a beady-eyed glare from the man at the desk. As if that would that cow Sherlock. The man had not even bothered to take out his chewing gum during his airport address.  It was impossible to take him seriously.

Sherlock strode over to the desk, scowling at the other man, who looked desperately about for some sort of relief. As if he thought Sherlock was going to harm him. Nonsense. Inform the attendant that his cat likely wouldn’t survive this next round of dialysis? Perhaps. This was war and needs must, but violence would accomplish very little. This time.

“The Doppler radar informs me that this storm front is long past.” Sherlock said, thrusting his mobile in front of the little man’s face. “It’s no longer snowing, and you’ve decided to cancel flights well after the fact. Shutting the hangar door after the plane, so to speak. Do you care to explain?” He smiled ferally. His phone chimed with an incoming call, but he ignored it, choosing instead to continue brandishing it in the sod-of-an-airline-employee’s face.

“Sir, this wasn’t my decision,” implored the weakling. “I kindly ask you to have patience and we will sort you out straight away.”

Scoffing, Sherlock pocketed his phone, though it was still ringing. “’Sort me out.’ I’ve seen your brand of sorting. You’ll likely foist me off on your least favorite partnering airline and give me a meal voucher that won’t cover even a third of the cost of the dreck served in this airport. But jolly good. At least  _you_ won’t have to deal with the customers you so gleefully usurped!”

“We won’t do that,” protested the clerk, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, you  _aren’t_  going to tell me you’ve rescheduled me on the already-overbooked regional airline—believe me, I checked and they  _are_  overbooked—for tomorrow morning?”

“No, I’m telling you we won’t give you a meal voucher. Weather delays are classified as ‘Acts of God’ and are non-refundable. We bear no responsibility for such cancelations.”

Sherlock’s phone started ringing again, and he batted ineffectually at his pocket as he continued to glare viciously at the other man.  “I have already detected four different ways in which your little outfit is out of safety compliance at this gate alone. Perhaps your aviation-governing body needs a call.”

Now the clerk just looked bored. “Sir, do what you feel is necessary. It’s not going to un-cancel this flight and it’s not going to reopen this airport. Kindly take a seat, and we will call you forward when we have your ticket reassigned.”

Huffing, Sherlock cast one more beady-eyed glare at the other man and then whirled away, stalking off towards the nearest coffee shop. As he queued up, his phone rang yet again. He snarled as he yanked it back out of his coat pocket and stabbed at the answer bar a few times before managing to connect the call.

“John, if the purpose of this call isn’t to inform me that you’ve discovered the secrets of teleportation, I really don’t care to speak to you right now.”

“Sherlock!” John gasped. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. It’s Molly.”

Impatiently, Sherlock frowned, though he felt a small hum of unease. “What do you mean, ‘It’s Molly’?”

He could hear his friend’s sigh. “She’s been taken to the King’s College Hospital A&E. She fell down the stairs at her flat.”

Suddenly, all of the seething anger in Sherlock dulled. All that remained was a faint ringing in his ears. “What do you mean?” he repeated dumbly.

“I don’t know much more. It sounds serious, though. The hospital called Barts and Stamford rang me when he couldn’t reach you and told me to get to the King’s A&E. I’m on my way now.”

Sherlock’s throat felt impossibly dry.  “I’m snowed into Brussels. All flights have been grounded. I… what’s her condition?”

John’s voice sounded frustrated and worried. “I have no idea. Only that it’s urgent. You’re really stuck?”

He nodded before remembering that John couldn’t see him. “I’ll try talk to the airline, but I don’t think it’s up to them. They might boot me out if I ask again.  I wasn’t playing nice.”

“Of course you weren’t,” John sighed. “See what you can do, yeah? I’ll call you just as soon as I know more.”

Hurrying back to the same, beleaguered airline clerk, Sherlock shoved his way to the front of a small group of passengers queued up in front of the desk. He ignored their offended protests and smacked his hands flat to the top of the counter. “I need to go home now.”

The clerk rolled his eyes. “Really, this is out of control. I’m going to contact airport security if you don’t calm dow—“

“I am calm!” Sherlock shouted before inhaling deeply and trying again. “I apologize.  I just received a call. I’m needed home desperately.”

“All of the passengers on tonight’s cancelled flight need to go home, sir.  _They_ aren’t making this difficult,” the clerk reminded him.

Sherlock very nearly lashed out, but he remembered Molly telling him about an article she’d read that indicated that mere politeness and posture could go a long way to attaining or achieving something difficult. He’d told her not to be ridiculous at the time, but now he tried to remember the steps to this blasted ‘Friendly Brontosaurus’ trick.

Folding his hands, Sherlock leaned forward slightly. “I understand. I feel bad for my earlier behavior. But I just found out that my pathologist has been taken to Accident and Emergency with grave injuries.”

The clerk was clearly flummoxed. “You’re that concerned about your doctor?”

“What? No!” Sherlock tried to remember what he’d said mere seconds ago. “My pathologist. My girlfriend.”

The man seemed to glean that Sherlock was floundering for a description of someone important, but his face only adopted an apologetic expression. “I am afraid we cannot do anything. The best I can offer is to make sure you are on the earliest flight out of Brussels tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock nearly growled, but he stepped away from the glass and pulled out his phone. He ignored the clerk’s murmured comment that dating one’s doctor was probably a real conflict of interest for all parties involved.

Dialing Mycroft’s number, he steeled himself for sarcasm, but his brother merely answered the phone without preamble. “You do know that I don’t just run a taxi service for you, don’t you? You can’t just expect me to send a jet to the far reaches of the world every time an actual airline doesn’t comply with your childish demands.”

“Belgium is literally across one, narrow sea, Mycroft. It’s hardly outer Mongolia.”

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft drawled.

“Please?” Sherlock asked quietly.

He could hear a sigh, but he only waited for his older brother’s response.  “You don’t even know if her condition warrants it.”

“And you do?” Sherlock shot back.

After Mycroft failed to respond, Sherlock issued his one-word appeal again even as he moved toward the airport exit.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “Don’t leave the airport.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking for the cameras, offering a sarcastic wave when he spotted one.

Mycroft continued after a put-upon sigh. “Just follow the signs to the Flander’s Left Luggage desk and tell them I sent you. And Sherlock? Try not to offend them.”

* * *

Within a half hour, Sherlock was buckling himself into a seat on a Lear Jet. He ignored the small crew’s chatter as his leg jiggled with nerves. As the cabin door was secured, he sent off a text to John.

_Anything? –SH_

Before his phone lost service as the jet reached altitude, he received John’s reply.

_They’re admitting her. They’ve moved her to room 504 and she is waiting on radiology. Where are you?  –John_

* * *

An hour later, the jet touched down at London City Airport. Sherlock was out of his seat and waiting by the door before they’d finished taxiing. His attempts to reach John since landing were so far unsuccessful, and although he’d managed to calm himself somewhat during the flight, he felt that same impotent agitation start to boil in his belly again.

A car waited for Sherlock on the tarmac. He jumped into the back seat and began calling all of his friends, trying to glean some small word on Molly’s condition. Each call to John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Stamford went straight through to voicemail, and he seethed with every, canned greeting.  Hospitals were notorious for blocking mobile phone reception, but this was not to be borne.

Finally, they reached King’s College Hospital and Sherlock jumped out and ran in without bothering to shut his car door behind him. He skidded down the hall, into the lift, and out onto the fifth floor.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a thudding fear as he approached the specified door. The fear of the unknown in this case was almost too much to bear, but he braced himself and cautiously moved into the room.

All of the people he’d tried so desperately to reach stood around a bed. They didn’t notice his arrival at first, until Mrs. Hudson glanced over and smiled wanly at him.

Sherlock pushed his way between Lestrade and Stamford and swallowed heavily at the sight of the pale figure lying on the bed. Molly was dwarfed by the machines and people that surrounded her, and Sherlock had to fight down a sound of distress.

Just as he reached for her hand, her eyes suddenly opened.

Sherlock hadn’t taken time to imagine their reunion. He’d been too frantic even to hope.  But if he had imagined it, it is doubtful that he’d have pictured it correctly.

The moment Molly’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s, she tore her gaze to to shoot accusatory looks at everyone else crowded in the room.

“Oh, this is  _just_  perfect,” she spat.

Though he wasn’t the master of deciphering inflection, Sherlock felt rather certain that Molly did not actually see the situation as perfect. Far from it, in fact.

He blinked and drew up short before he could touch her. “What?” he asked stupidly.

“Who made Sherlock come back to London?” She arched an eyebrow and then pursed her lips unhappily when John meekly raised a hand.

“Molly,” Sherlock began, at a loss for how to proceed. “I’ve been terrif—nervous. What is going on?”

She shrugged, still discomfited. “You fall down a few stairs and everyone panics.”

Everyone else shuffled their feet and refused to make eye contact with either Molly or Sherlock.

“Y—your injuries aren’t severe?” he asked her, anxiety still twisting his gut.

She smiled tiredly at him. “No, not at all.”

He started to nod, but then a thought occurred to him. “And you’re not just saying that to make me feel better? You’re not secretly hemorrhaging and about to die, are you?”

Molly had the gall to snort. “No. Nothing like that. I’m no hero. If I were dying, I would be demanding tributes of kittens and chocolate right now.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment before nodding. It was true. She would want both of those things on hand at her deathbed.

“Then why have they admitted you?” he asked, not exactly comforted despite assurances of her overall health.

Now Molly actually looked abashed. “I have a concussion and fractured my ankle,” she muttered.  

“How?” Sherlock pressed.

“I tripped on awful Mrs. Wormwood’s horrid schnoodle, Mitzy. It was trying to bite my ankles while I held an armful of wash. I didn’t even get to pick up all of the pants that fell out of my basket before Mrs. Wormwood called Emergency.”  She scowled resentfully, likely worrying about never seeing some of her favorite knickers again.

Sherlock glared at all of the others in the room, daring them to poke fun at her for it. Fortunately, everyone merely nodded sympathetically.

“But why was it so hard to get your status? John thought you must be at death’s door.”

Molly shrugged. “They wouldn’t let me get my mobile before hauling me off to the A&E.  They couldn’t reach you, and you’re my emergency contact. They wouldn’t tell anyone else sensitive information without my permission, and no one actually asked me to give it.”

Despite the many witnesses around them, Sherlock picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles.  “They were probably more concerned about your bruised brain.”

Harrumphing, Molly scowled again. “I’ve seen worse,” she hissed.

“Yes,” Mary interjected. “In the  _morgue_.”

The patient actually stuck her tongue out at the other woman. “Shouldn’t you all be off now? My emergency contact is has been needlessly contacted. You can all go back to watching  _Strictly Come Dancing_  or whatever it was you were doing before a vicious dog interrupted your evenings.”

Everyone ignored the grumpy woman’s words, though they did say their farewells and shuffle out of the room.  Sherlock still stood by the bed, holding her hand until they’d all gone.

As soon as they were alone, Molly squeezed his fingers. “I’m really sorry I scared you.” It was her turn to tug his hand to her mouth and kiss his fingers.

He shrugged. “I was trying to get back to you anyway. I was snowed into the Brussels Airport when John called. Here, budge over,” he said, nudging her further over on the bed so he could stretch out alongside her, looping his arms around her.

“Really, this tumble down the stairs of yours was fortuitous. I managed to finagle a ‘special circumstances’ ride from some covert ops team of my brother’s. Speaking of which, if you see him, act sicker than you actually are.”

“How good of me to fall,” Molly agreed. She laid her head on his shoulder. “My head and ankle  _are_ throbbing. I really, really hate schnoodles, Sherlock,” she moaned.

Sherlock gingerly pressed his lips to her hair, careful to avoid any tender lumps. “My poor thing. Care for me to make things worse?”

“How?” she asked.

“I visited the chocolate museum in Bruges this morning.”

“And?”

He thought of dreams lost and time wasted. “Nothing like Willy Wonka’s factory.”

They stared at the white wall in front of the bed.

Molly sighed. “Damn it.”

* * *

 


	12. Death's Door and Other Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since I stashed my gajillions (literal count) of Tumblr fics here. 
> 
> Here's the fic that inspired this collection's name. It's one of my favorites.

 

* * *

He looks so stern when he tells a joke, like his body isn’t comfortable with something as common as  _humor_ . But somehow, that severe delivery only makes her laugh harder when it comes time for the punch line.

It isn’t that he supplies a joke smoothly or even particularly cleverly. In fact, most of his jokes are the exact opposite of funny. But after so much time spent with his deductions and observations, she is always surprised when he just wants to make her smile.

* * *

“Two men walked into a bar—though, why they had to go into a pub when the city is rife with public drinking fountains is beyond me. In fact, I’ve never understood the popularity of these jokes. Always so stupid—Anyway, these fake men walked into a fake bar. The first man walked over to the bartender and said, ‘I’d like some H 2 O,’—because normal, functioning humans only speak in chemical formulae, of course—His companion, who was an idiot of unmitigated proportions, said, ‘That sounds great. I would like some H 2 O, too!’ As I said, he was an idiot and deserved to die. Which is what he did, because, as you well know, H 2 O 2   is hydrogen peroxide, and he failed to notice its very distinctive odor. Moron.”

She laughs until tears stream down her face.

His lips twitch at her reaction and the tips of his ears turn an embarrassed-but-pleased shade of red.

She never once tells him that he needs to change his delivery. She glares at anyone who might do it for her. 

* * *

He’s stopped commanding that she not tell jokes. It doesn’t mean it’s not a painful process to get to the end when she tells one, but, sometimes, she thinks he even likes it.

 “A man lies in hospital, weak, frail, and surely at death’s door,” she says, keeping her voice low, hoping her tone is compelling.

He glances over at her from his microscope. “Why is it always called ‘death’s door’? Just say he’s about to die.”

“It’s a metaphor; you’re leaving life behind, so it might as well be symbolized as a door that you exit through.”

“ _Through which_ you exit. Metaphors are useless drivel, Molly.” He sounds bored.

She rolls her eyes. “ _Shh_. Anyway, a priest comes in to administer the man’s Last Rites.”

“Speaking of useless drivel....”

“Quiet. The priest stands by the man’s bed, gazing at his still form. But just as he lifts his bible and opens it, the man begins gasping and flailing around.”

“Ah, agonal breathing and palliative hallucination.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s really not. Just listen to my damn joke!” She doesn’t mean to stomp her foot, but she does.

“Fine.” He turns back to stare at his slide.

“ _Anyway_ , the man flails around and the priest says, ‘Yes, my child? Did you have something you wanted to say?’ But the man only gasps more. So the priest says, ‘Are they words for someone else? Would you like to write it down?’”

Sherlock interrupts again. “The man is supposedly at ‘death’s door’ and this priest asks if he’d like a pen and paper? That’s how I’d like to spend my last few minutes: struggling to communicate my memoirs.”

“The man nods,” Molly continues on, pitching her voice even louder to talk over Sherlock. “He manages to scribble something and thrusts it at the priest, who tucks it into his bible and promises to deliver it to the prospective decedent’s wife. He then finishes with the Last Sacraments just as the man finally expires.”

“C’est la mort.” Sherlock sing-songs.

Her eyes narrow in response, and then she rushes to finish. “The priest leaves the room and finds the newly widowed woman waiting outside of the room. He offers her words of comfort and then remembers the man’s last message. He hands her the note and leaves, off to handle other, priesty things. The woman is left with her tears and a piece of paper with some messy scrawl that says, ‘ _You’re standing on my oxygen tube_.’”

Silence.

Molly looks over at Sherlock, but he continues with his study, oblivious. “Thank you, I’ll be here all week,” she mutters to herself before deciding she should get back to her own work.

Just as she’s about to go into the hall, though, she hears a low chuckle behind her. A secret smile finds her lips as she continues over to the entrance to the morgue, or as she lovingly calls it, Death’s Door.

* * *

She’s actually seen him laugh good and long at ridiculous things.

Like his brother.

She didn’t used to think that of Mycroft Holmes. She even tried defending him when Sherlock would poke jibes at the absent man.

 “He’s not even here to defend himself, Sherlock.”

“He spies on you through CCTV and has dossiers on all of the men with whom you’ve gone on dates during the time of our acquaintance. He even has a list of lingerie stores you frequent, which he helpfully offered to provide me when you and I became intimate,” was his bored reply.

Now, though she still genuinely likes him, she allows herself to think that Mycroft is just the tiniest bit ridiculous.

* * *

The best thing, though, is when Sherlock is almost  _playful._

She sits, precariously perched on the small edge of the bathroom counter. Dispassionately, she watches as he carefully applies antiseptic to her bloody, blackened toe. 

He’d apologized quite sweetly when it happened, and only moved on to the wry jokes when she assured him that she was relatively unscathed.

“Sad waste of an Erlenmeyer flask, if you ask me,” he murmurs.

“I always have been selfish. I just  _love_  the feeling of lab glassware falling onto my bare feet. I meant to thank you for putting a greasy flask in with the clean dishes. You do know how to surprise a girl.”

He looks up at her through his lashes before he places a gauze pad on the toe and sets to wrapping it in medical tape. “I needed it as close to sterile as possible in a limited amount of time. You should feel sorry for me,” he adds.

“Oh?”

“Hmm,” he nods in confirmation, “I got a face full of really hot steam when I opened the dishwasher to put the flask in there.”

Molly’s mouth turns down in a moue of mock regret and she cups his face in her hands, tugging him forward as she leans down a bit so she can pepper his brow, cheeks, nose, and lips with noisy kisses.

“Stop,” he feebly protests, though the hand that’s not holding the roll of tape moves up to her hip to keep her in place.

She draws back and snickers. “But Sherlock, aren’t you going to tell me your war stories? Please, don’t spare me the gory details. Tell me about the wretched steam, my darling love muffin.”

He gives her a horse bite on her bare thigh, instead, and she yelps and laughs.

When Sherlock finishes taping up her poor, abused toe, he glances up at her and she looks on curiously.  He seems to come to a decision. With a sigh, he drops down onto his knees and gives the big, taped mass a brief peck and then rolls his eyes up to meet hers from his prone position. “Better?”

She gets over her initial shock and tilts her head, considering. “It’s a bit achey. I probably will need at least… twelve more kisses to make it better.”

He hops back up to his feet and turns his back on her.

“Are you done?” she asks sadly.

Looking at her over his shoulder, his face is eloquent with exasperation at his slow Molly. “Of course not. I’m going to give you what’s so crassly called a ‘piggyback’ ride. Though, really, it’s more like some kind of a marsupial or simian ride than porcine—“ He cuts off with a grunt when she clambers up onto his back, looping her arms around his shoulders.

“What is this marsupial/simian ride’s destination?” she asks.

“The bedroom, of course. I can administer these kisses much more efficiently there.”

“Ooh,” she waggles her eyebrows, lays a smacking kiss on the back of his neck, and warbles, “ _I want sexual healing_.”

“Molly.”

“Yes?”

“Stop singing.”

As she said,  _sometimes_  he likes her jokes.

* * *

He whispers her name as his hand sweeps down from her shoulder, over her flank, to her thigh and back up again while he nuzzles her temple.

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear that Lestrade arrested a gentleman yesterday and found sodium chloride and a package of AAs in his car?”

She frowns, trying to make sense of his words with her hazy, sated mind. “Why’d he arrest him?”

“Initially? I don’t know.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him wince and take a deep breath. “But they also ended up charging him with a salt and battery.”

She is quiet for a moment, and then: “Oh, for the love of—“ she bursts out.

But her arms only tighten around him more and he smiles as she stretches up to kiss him with a husky laugh on her lips. 

* * *

 


	13. Drabble Prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we have a series of drabble prompt fills. With a little fudging on the 100-word limit that constitutes a drabble for several of them.

* * *

**Prompt:** Pasta

* * *

“This is ridiculous and a waste of time.”

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock handed Molly a sheet of dough, frowning at the flour getting on his shirt cuffs. “Because it’s a lot of effort for something we can get at Sainsbury’s.”

She began feeding the dough into the pasta cutter as she spoke over its whir. “Cheer up. Italian is your favorite.”

"My favorite Italian is the type I don’t have to make for myself."

Molly didn’t respond, used to his whinging and too busy smiling in satisfaction at the long ropes of fresh spaghetti coming out of the cutter.

"That is as fabulous mechanism," Sherlock conceded, resting his chin on her shoulder, watching the pasta. "Just last week I used it to slice up some human flesh for an experiment. It worked well. Hard to clean, though."

Freezing, Molly was silent for several beats. “Well then. Angelo’s it is.”

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Bra

* * *

"It was my favorite," Molly protests.

He pats her head. Mostly to deflect his discomfort and embarrassment. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Sighing, she moves into to the kitchen to fix herself some tea. “They don’t make it anymore. You shut down the manufacturer, in fact. Something to do with embezzling.”

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"I forgive you. But Sherlock?"

This is what he’s been dreading: the why of it. “Yes?” he replies cautiously.

"You could have just asked me. I can tell by looking that you wouldn’t even fill an A cup."

Of course she’d know without asking. Damn it.

 

* * *

 **Prompt** : Thames

* * *

She darts over just as he drops onto one of the benches that line the embankment. “Are you okay?”

Shivering as a breeze reaches his sodden form, he nods. “I knew there was a possibility that Madson would go for the water. I didn’t deduce that he’d have a getaway once he was in there.”

"You only dove in after he reached the motorboat."  
  
“I could have caught it.” He sniffs loudly. “And now I desperately need a bath.”

She pulls something slimy from his hair. “Want some help—”

He brightens and interrupts enthusiastically, “I’m could use some help washing my back. And my co—”

"I meant help finding a decontamination shower, Pervert."

"Oh," he deflates.

"But afterwords…." She smiles shyly at him and his lips curve in return.

 

* * *

 

**Prompt:** King

* * *

He’d only been asleep for forty minutes when his phone chimed. His hand groped for it on the bedside table and he squinted until his eyes adjusted to its bright screen.

—  
From: Unavailable  
Sent: 1:38 AM

The man with the key….  
—

He dropped the phone back onto the table in frustration and brought his hands to his face to rub it wearily.

"Same message?" the bundle of blankets to his left mumbled.

"Yeah."

Rolling to her side, she threw her arm across him and kissed his neck. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep each other safe this time.”

"You’ve always kept me safe," he whispered into her hair. "Thank you."

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Bathtub

* * *

After a long day straining her back over corpses, she eyed the bathtub with the same affection that she would a lover. She went through the ritual of filling it, pouring in oil, and lighting a few candles before sinking into the warm water with a grateful sigh.

Little was wrong with the world in that moment.

Until her peace was interrupted by a large hindrance climbing into her bath, not bothering to sit down as he complained crankily about everything from water temperature, her choice of oil, and how much space she was taking.

As he continued to bemoan his wretched state, she silently sat up, grabbed the handheld sprayer, turned the water to its coldest setting, and aimed it at his head.

Very soon, she had the whole tub to herself again. She turned the tap to hot, eager to top up her warm water. It had gotten a bit chilly in there.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Sheets

* * *

When he entered the bedroom, Sherlock smiled at the form curled up under the sheets. Stretching out on the bed, he allowed himself to feel a rush of unguarded affection.

"I don’t tell you often enough," he whispered, "but you make me a better person, and I love you with all my being."

"I never knew you felt that way about Toby," a muffled voice said behind him.

Sherlock jumped, horrified to see Molly standing in the bathroom door with a toothbrush in her mouth.

Slowly, he turned back to see the fat tabby worm his way out from a Molly-sized nest of pillows. The cat purred at the sight of his humans and head-butted Sherlock’s chin.

Love was indeed in the air.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Nightingale

* * *

"I loathe being sick," she moans. But she’s congested, so it sounds more like "I load be-ink sick."

He smoothes a hand over her tangled hair. “Get some rest and soon you’ll be slicing and dicing corpses to your heart’s content.”

"I don’t think you mean me," she sniffles, rubbing her nose red with a soggy tissue.

"I could use some diced corpses. But I also just want you well. Although you’re disgusting right now, I’ve decided to nurse you back to health."

She looks at him drily. “Thanks.”

He kisses her fevered brow. “Anytime. Well, not anytime. If you had flesh eating bacteria, probably not.”

"You romantic fool."

"I know."

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Snow

* * *

It crunched underfoot as he trudged past the Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. His breath cascaded out in front of him, and he tightened his scarf against the cold trying to reach him.

He heard her laugh before he spotted her. She stood by the Serpentine, watching ducks flicking snowflakes off of their backs. Though her cheeks were rosy, she looked unbothered by the chill.

She must have heard him whisper to her, for she turned slowly to look at him. Her lips soundlessly formed his name.

Unsure of what he was doing, he held open his arms. But when she ran into them, he’d never felt more certain of anything.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Sonnet (I have yet to forgive Broomy for this one)

* * *

It is usually a one-time thing.  
Stilling heart, shuttering eyes, ending breath.  
Like the cutting of the thinnest of strings.  
But he has her and her business is Death.

He always seems to make a game of it.  
Falling at her feet, she keeps him alive.  
Like that string, uncut, is something she knit.  
She’s now a hum in his mind, queen to hive.

Watching her with an ache in his fool chest,  
She slipped by and he missed her backward glance  
Too little, too late, he thought it was best  
He sighed that he would even try to dance.

Then she’s back and his heart starts with a slap  
He can’t even mind, for she is his map.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Pancakes

* * *

"I’m hungry," he tells her on a Tuesday night.

"Hmm, best get cooking."

He flings himself onto the settee, his head landing in her lap. “Cooking? Me?”

"You think I should, instead?"

"The neighbors forgave you for the fire evacuation and some of the pancakes were still edible," he encourages.

"No."

"I’ll waste away."

"Or you could go to the supermarket," she suggests.

His nose wrinkles. “No, I welcome death. Farewell. I loved you best.”

"Okay," she mumbles, pulling her book closer.

She only looks up when he finally stands with a huff and trudges out of the flat.

"Soon," she croons to her rumbling stomach. "Very soon."

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Pregnancy

* * *

She stared up at the dark ceiling, feeling bloated and nauseous; sore and hemorrhoidal.

“This had better be an amazing baby.” She didn’t bother to disguise her self-pity.

He blinked and rolled over to look at her. “Newborns are useless. What are you hoping for? Telekinesis?”

She shrugged. “I’d settle for no colic and sleeping through the night, really. Just something to make this all worth it.”

Rubbing her swollen belly, he pondered it. “Considering the trouble she’s given you already? Doubtful.”

“But I suppose we’ll still love her.”

“I’m very afraid we will,” he agreed with a forlorn sigh.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Lipstick

* * *

“It’s called ‘Scarlet Empress’. It cost £40, so it’d better elevate me to royalty.”

Mascara wand poised, Molly looks over. “It’s gorgeous. Worth every penny. Don’t let Sherlock near it.”

Mary blots and swivels around, beaming. “I love my baby, but I’m looking forward to spending an evening with adults who can actually talk and don’t wet themselves as they stare intensely at me.”

"My date had me calculate the exact volume of liquor he can imbibe without wetting himself. I can arrange an ‘accident’ if you start to feel homesick," the pathologist offers.

"You know how to show your friends a good time," Mary snickers.

Molly shrugs modestly. “I do what I can.”

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Jealousy

* * *

Sherlock’s  ey es narrow as he watches  Molly  from across the lab .  

“ A friend gave me a piece , ” she  explains around  a large  mouthful of cake.

_Hmm_ ing  with feigned disinterest , he  glares as she sinks  her fork  into the  gateau  again .  He tracks its journey from plate to mouth.  Very. Carefully.

His belly burns  with longing. As  it  dwindles, he turns  from  the visual taunt, while Molly remains blissfully  unaware of his envy.

Or  perhaps not. A tap on his shoulder has him turning back around .

He nearly grins with sheer happiness as she feeds him what remains of the cake.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Protective

* * *

They stagger out onto the street, the sounds of breaking glass and shouting following them.

“I can’t believe you started a barroom brawl,” Sherlock marvels, grabbing Molly’s hand and pulling her along.

“I can’t believe I only got three punches in,” she growls, looking back.

He comes to a stop. “Three? I counted four.”

“Woodley ducked. I hit his friend.”

“It wasn’t necessary, either way.”

"He gave you a black eye," she sputters.

"So you decided the thug should come after you, instead?"

She shrugs. “I’m scrappy.”

"With a strong right hook," he admits, pressing a kiss to her tender knuckles.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Robbery

* * *

"£3000!" she crows as they accelerate out of the city. She leans across the jalopy’s bench seat and kisses him deeply, not batting an eye when he swerves before righting the wheel.

"We’re not safe yet," he reminds her. "The police are out of their depth, but they could catch up with us."

"The look on Sebastian Wilkes’ face," she says, waving away his concern. "Serves that worm right. He couldn’t believe you were holding him at gunpoint."

His lips twist into a smirk. “We’ll just have to hope that they never figure out that it’s just a cigarette lighter.”

 

* * *

 

**Prompt:** Dandelion

* * *

He can see her out of the corner of his eye wherever he goes. If she were anyone else, he would compliment her on her ability to literally blend in with the walls around her.

But she’s not anyone else. The color is perfect for her and he’s hyper-aware of it.

He tries to look away, but keeps glancing back to a welcome Spring.

His mother once lamented that strong, cheerful dandelions—often maligned as weeds—are overlooked in favor of changeable, delicate daffodils. He pretended to ignore her then, but now he thinks she was on to something.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Bruise

* * *

Molly frowns. “It looks like Wales. But if you turn your head this way, it looks like a pig.”

“It looks like blood capillaries broken by blunt trauma,” Sherlock says, voice muffled by his pillow. “A contusion from smacking into a cabinet in the middle of the night.”

She clambers over him so she can look at it upside down. “The negative space makes four, lumpy faces.”

“No.”

“Then what does it look like?” she asks, pressing a kiss to his sore bottom. She almost doesn’t hear his indignant mutter.

“If anything, it looks like a treasure map.”

 

* * *

  **Prompt:**  Drunken Message (Stag Night)

* * *

"Molly! Oh, my mobile’s upside-down. Molly, I must tell you: Your breasts are bloody delightful. Not just as mammary glands for future offspring. I’d like to feel them under my cheek. They’re not too little! Jus’ right-sized. Jus’ delightful.

"You know what else would be jus’ delightful? You in my bed. Or me in your bed. I’m not picky. But no Tom. He’s not welcome. It could jus’ be you and me and we’d have many sex—Oh, hello, John! I’m just prop-prosipish-propositioning—what? You want to go? Very well. It has been a night, hasn’t it—"

_End of Message._  
 _Press 1 to Save, 2 to Replay, or 3 to Delete_.

 

* * *

 **Prompt:** Molly beats Sherlock at Cluedo

* * *

"Mr. Peahen in the dungeon with hydrogen sulfide."

Molly sighed. “You know those aren’t even options. You’re just being ornery. Would you be nicer if we made it interesting?”

"How?"

"Strip Cluedo. An item of clothing for every room your opponent reaches, and all clothes at the end." Her eyebrows waggled suggestively.

Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. “I accept.”

"In that case, it’s Colonel Mustard, in the study, with the lead pipe."

He scoffed, but yanked open the Top Secret envelope. His smirk slipped at its contents. “Damn it!”

"Take it all off." She reclined back and smiled in satisfaction. "I’m waiting."

* * *


	14. Bundle of Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no memory of writing this. Well, I lie. I have a vague memory of it, but only because I just reread it.

* * *

**New York City  
** **1948**

* * *

“I won’t do it,” Molly Holmes insisted, eyeing the proffered items that her husband, Sherlock, held out to her.

“Why not?”

She didn’t bother to mince words. “Because, frankly, it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever suggested.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t  _make_  stupid suggestions. I’m merely asking you to disguise this doll, which contains sensitive family information for my client, for the duration of our flight to London. We’ll pass it off to John Nesbit on landing, and no one will be any the wiser.” He smiled winningly at Molly, still holding out a life-size baby doll (which he grasped by its ankle) and a fuzzy, yellow blanket.

“And when I get caught and accused of espionage, what will happen?”

“Why would anyone suspect anything? No one will notice it’s not a real baby,” he scoffed, his arms flailing. The doll flapped forlornly. “You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I sometimes forget your keen ability to block out the rest of the world,” Molly cajoled, trying desperately to close the suitcase she’d stupidly agreed to share with her clotheshorse husband. She grunted as she sat on the lid, bouncing up and down to push it further shut. “Everyone notices when you bring a baby onboard an aeroplane. Everyone notices and immediately hates you. Especially on a long flight like the one we’re about to take. When this one doesn’t cry or do  _anything_ , they’ll get suspicious.”

“Maybe at first, but they’ll be so thrilled by how quiet our ‘baby’ is, they’ll soon forget it exists!” He shook the doll and the baby blanket again for emphasis. “I will make sure no one realizes the truth, I swear. I’ll be with you the whole time, and will think of some explanations for the  _highly unlikely_  event that someone catches us out.”

His wife stared at him, unmoved.

He made an annoyed sound, pacing. “And I’ll follow your procedure for official clearance instead of stealing the body parts the next three times I require a specimen.”

“Ten,” she countered.

“That’s downright exorbitant. Five.”

“It’s not exorbitant when you’re doing something illegal at my place of work. Nine-and-a-half.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.  Six.”

Molly hopped down from her suitcase perch on top of the bed with a sad shake of her head.  “It really is a shame that Mr. Nesbit isn’t going to get his doll,” she sighed.

“Fine, seven!”

“Fine. And that doesn’t count any spleens,” she hastily added. “I need to begin a study on one, and it’s hard enough getting a foot in, being the only woman staff member there. You don’t take any spleens until I give you the go-ahead.”

“But I was wanting to investigate the effects of”—he broke off with a groan at his wife’s sardonic look—“Alright, fine. No spleens.”

Smiling beatifically, she yanked the doll out of his hand and held it aloft by its other ankle. “Hello, darling,” she cooed.

* * *

Molly smiled blandly at a stewardess as she sank into her seat, carefully cradling her bundle to her chest as she smoothed out her skirts with her other hand. Her heart thumped a tattoo against her ribs, but she and Sherlock had timed their arrival at the airport until moments before their flight was set to depart, hoping to avoid any awkward conversations.

The flight attendant had glared beadily at their lateness until she’d noticed the infant, whereupon she’d smiled graciously, as if personally welcoming the couple into the global club of harried parents. She spoke softly to them as they stowed their belongings, lest she disturb their sleeping baby, and Molly and Sherlock barely managed to grin affably in thanks, even as they gritted their teeth in hopes that she’d move on to assist other passengers.

As soon as she was gone, Molly exhaled. “Being a mother is exhausting,” she said under her breath. “Why do people keep  _smiling_  at me?”

“Probably something to do with that entirely rubbish ‘motherly glow,’” Sherlock sniffed. “Your complexion looks as pasty as ever to me, though.”

Molly merely arched a brow before struggling to open her book one-handed.

* * *

They’d only been airborne for an hour when she noticed the man across the aisle trying to get their attention. She glanced at Sherlock, but he was of no help. His eyes were closed, his hands steepled under his chin.

She cleared her throat and called across her husband’s prone form and over the whir of the engines. “Yes?”

“How old?” the man asked, beaming.

“He’s twenty-nine,” she replied automatically.

The man laughed gaily. “Not your bloke. Your baby.”

“Oh! Oh….” She glanced down at the doll’s face, only visible to her in the folds of the blanket. She’d not done much research on infant growth yet, so she had no idea what an appropriate age would be for an baby of that size. “Erm. Four months?”

“You’re not sure?” the man hooted.

Molly smiled uncomfortably. “It’s been such a blur,” she feebly offered.

“I know how that is. Ellen here”—he nodded toward a snoring woman to his right—“wandered around in a haze for ages after our Bobby was born. Too many sleepless nights, eh?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. So much time spent feeding and changing. You just lose track of things.”

“I’ll say,” he chortled. “I don’t know how many times she burnt our dinner as a result. Poor dear.”

“And you didn’t offer to help?” Molly asked waspishly before remembering herself. She laughed forcedly to take the edge off of her barb and remembered to give the doll an awkward bounce and tongue cluck for effect.

“Oh, I know how you ladies are. You don’t want us gents bumbling around, messing anything up, right?”

“Of course,” she said, shifting a bit so that her elbow dug into Sherlock’s side, hoping he’d resurface and distract their neighbor.

No such luck.

The man continued to beam, unaware of her discomfiture. “What’ve you got there? Boy or girl?”

She froze. She couldn’t remember what the doll had been wearing before they swaddled it up. “Bo—girl,” she finally answered.

“Ah, a little girl, I’m bet she’s every bit as lovely as her mum. What’s her name?”

Molly Holmes, neé Hooper, avoided undercover work like the plague. She was too earnest to dissemble, and so she rarely ventured much into the field with her husband. And moments like this exemplified  _why_.

“Hildegard,” she blurted before realizing that the poor doll was doomed to an absolutely hideous name for at least another six hours.

The man blinked before forcing a smile. “That’s quite a big name for a baby girl.”

“We call her Gardy,” she said, flustered.

“Hmm. I would have assumed you called her the more common Hildi.”

“Um, yes. That is what I meant. She’s our little Hildi. Ha. I’m just tired.”

Molly gave up trying to rouse Sherlock gently. Faking a forceful sneeze, she whacked him with a flailing elbow. It had the desired effect, and he nearly jumped out of his seat, looking around wildly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dear Heart,” she said sweetly. “I have some residual allergies, I guess. I’ve just been having a lovely chat with our neighbor, Mister….” She looked expectantly over to the other gentleman.

“Richardson,” he supplied jovially. “We were just discussing the strain of motherhood on the fairer sex. All those sleepless nights confusing the daft dears.”

Sherlock blinked owlishly at the man for a moment before remembering himself. “We’re the Horne family. And yes! My poor poppet. Just yesterday, she tried to nurse me when little Honoria started fussing,”

Molly stared furiously out her window, feeling a burning blush swamp her cheeks. An awkward pause nearly permeated the cabin, and she fought the angry mutters that wanted to escape over Sherlock’s roundabout mention of her breasts and his implied proximity to said breasts to a complete stranger. Not to mention—

“Honoria?” Richardson frowned.

Before Sherlock could reply, Molly laughed loudly. Too loudly. Several heads turned. “That’s her middle name. Sher…win insists on calling her that because of his mother. You know how it is.”

“Hildegard…Honoria…Horne.” Richardson said slowly, looking more and more flummoxed.

“Hildegard?” Sherlock said, snorting. “Where the hell—“

“Mr. Richardson asked for her name while you were asleep. Poor man doesn’t need to be subjected to our squabbles, Darling,” Molly interrupted desperately before turning back to Richardson. “We had a hard time agreeing to call her what we did. I’ll admit, we still shuffle between the two from time to time.”

Sherlock stared at her for several beats before smiling tightly. “Right. Sweetness, I do believe  _Hildegard_  needs a nappy change. Allow me to escort you to the lavatory.”

They hustled down the aisle, ignoring the stares of several other passengers. As soon as they were shut into the lavatory, Sherlock turned to Molly and hissed, “Hildegard?”

“How was I to know you’d bother naming it something else?” she asked desperately.

Her husband sighed dramatically. “We established the infant’s name and our cover story before we even left the hotel. Why did you change it?”

“I panicked.”

He looked at her for a moment before nodding and pulling her forward for a swift kiss. “We need to work on your lying skills. Very well. Her name is Hildegard Honoria Horne”—he shuddered—“She’s three months—“

“I already told him four,” she interrupted.

“Fine, four months old. We’ve been married two years, you enjoy quilting and cooking.” Molly snorted but made no comment. “And we’ve been visiting friends who recently relocated. We’re going home to Derbyshire, where you,  _Elaine_ , make home, and I am an investment banker. Whose name is….?”

“Sherwin, apparently.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, we need to work on your lies.”

“That is the oddest thing anyone has ever said to his spouse,” Molly said, trying to fix the doll’s blanket in the cramped space.

“Oh? I would have thought my request to you last night would be considered odder.”

“That, my love, was not odd. It was merely naughty.”

Sherlock grinned at her as he pulled her into another kiss before he unlatched the lavatory door.

Mr. Richardson thankfully nodded off not long after Molly and Sherlock returned to their seats. Molly shoved the doll into Sherlock’s arms for a while. Every once in awhile she had to mutter to him that he was about to drop the baby, before she finally took it back from him.

They suffered through four more people sauntering over to ask them about their baby. Each time, they had to elbow each other as they forgot various agreed-upon details, in turn.

And on four separate occasions, Sherlock bombastically brought up the mortifying, made-up anecdote regarding Molly’s sleep-addled confusion over whom she needed to breastfeed.

If she stepped on his foot harder than necessary when she foisted the doll off on him once more while she visited the lavatory again, well, that was just a happy happenstance.

* * *

The moment the plane touched down, Molly was perched on her seat, eager to end the farce. She studiously ignored their neighbors as she set about collecting her belongings and was up like the shot as soon as the crew opened the cabin doors.

 She was vaguely aware of Sherlock following behind her, but her only goal was to make it back through the airport terminal without incident.

“John Nesbit is over by that column,” Sherlock said, pointing to a man twenty meters off.

Molly’s pace increased, and she barely managed to haul the doll with any real care.

Especially when a familiar voice called after them. “Oh, Mrs. Horne, you’ve dropped Hildi’s blanket!” Mr. Richardson’s voice rang out.

Pretending she hadn’t heard him, Molly very nearly ran until she reached her goal.

She threw the doll into Nesbit’s surprised arms with a “Mazel tov,” grabbed Sherlock’s hand and yanked him down the hall, hustling him until they arrived at their waiting transfer car.

“What about our luggage?” he asked weakly.

“We can come back for it,” she growled.

They rode in silence for several minutes before Sherlock started laughing, slowly at first until he very nearly had tears in his eyes.  When Molly arched a questioning brow, he explained, “ _Mazel tov._ You certainly have a way with people, Mrs. Holmes.”

“This is why I prefer corpses,” she grumbled. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You told people I tried to  _nurse_  you.”

“I’ve heard that it’s a thing.”

“Well,” she huffed, “it’s not my thing.”

“Nor mine,” he said, still laughing quietly. He sobered and collapsed back against the seat. “You’re right. Parenting is exhausting. Are we really going to have one of those someday?” he asked, looking shell-shocked.

Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. But if we do, I hope we can remember what we name her.”

“We remember John and Mary’s daughter’s name,” he said, considering.

“We probably shouldn’t use Emily Watson as an example of our stellar parenting abilities.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“You glued her to your jacket the last time we cared for her,” Molly reminded him.

“Not intentionally, and I apologized!”

“You said, ‘I regret that she wanted to be held at the same time that I made use of the epoxy.’”

“They understood my meaning.”

“And they haven’t had us over to watch her since because of it.”

“Or it could be because you tried to feed her marmite,” he fired back.

She huffed. “It’s an acquired taste. I was merely starting her early.”

“I repeat: are we really going to have one of those things sometime?”

“Our baby will  _love_  marmite,” Molly said with a sullen shrug.

Sherlock was just as defensive. “And she will know to stay away from epoxy. Even as a newborn.”

They nodded at each other in perfect accord.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

 


	15. Passing Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the loverly Sundance201: Sherlock writes stuff down on sticky notes that he wants to remember but doesn't have time to file away in his mind palace. Molly finds some of them.

* * *

Usually, they just contained chemical formulae and math calculations. But not always. When new construction brought unfamiliar routes to the city outskirts, she’d find crumpled sketches of maps in his messy scrawl. Sometimes the notes made absolutely no sense, consisting of random letters or symbols. Once, she even swore she was looking at a stylized drawing of a kitten wearing a cape.

She later decided that particular sticky note hadn’t been his.  


She never actually saw him leave the notes around her workspaces. They’d just appear, discarded beside a microscope, strewn on the floor of the morgue and, on one memorable occasion, attached to the toe tag of a corpse.

Because she’d known him for as long as she had, she knew not to ask him about them. Sherlock Holmes’ mind was a steel trap. Sherlock Holmes did not take  _notes_.

The day she found an entire pad’s worth of discarded paper around (none actually making it  _in_ ) the bin, she allowed herself the luxury of vividly imagining confronting him about it as she conducted a routine post-mortem.

“Be realistic, Molly. If I did  _take notes_ ,” she mimicked in a deep voice, “I wouldn’t use tiny, insignificant squares of paper.” She dropped a spatter shield down over her face and set to cutting into Daryl Mayberry’s cranium as she continued. “If I did something so crass as take notes, I would use electronic impulse paper. It’s a new, obscure technology. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

Silencing her bone saw, she stared off into the middle distance, stunned by her latest epiphany. “My god…. I’m in love with a hipster.”

“Who?” demanded a new voice from directly behind her. The voice she had imitated mere moments before, in fact.

Molly’s eyes widened, and she hurriedly bent and stared into the cranial cavity of her patient, shoving her finger into spongy brain. “Sherlock! Good morning,” she called behind her, and then winced. She’d not meant to shout. She’d panicked.

The man in question skirted around her slab, periodically assessing the body when he wasn’t flicking his eyes back to her.

“With whom are you in love?” he repeated instead of returning her greeting.

Flustered, she looked around for inspiration. “Oh, no one you know. His name is…“ Her eyes fell on the used sticky notes, forlornly stacked on the counter where she’d placed them after scooping them up from the floor. She could just spot the brand name on the backer paper. “Threem. Threem Stickay.”

Sherlock stared at her. He didn’t even blink. It was unsettling. Finally, though, he spoke. “That’s a horrible name.”

“That’s rather ethnocentric of you, Sherlock. Do practice some reflexivity,” she scolded, even as she mentally whacked her head at her stupidity. When she thought he wasn’t looking, she mouthed,  _Threem?_   She astounded herself sometimes.

The fact that his eye roll was audible (or perhaps it was just the annoyed puff of breath he expelled) had her looking up at him again. He reached across the slab and pushed her thick braid over her shoulder from where it was precariously poised to dip into brain matter.

“I meant that you need to work on your impulsive responses. A convincing lie takes more than frenetic backpedaling.  Memorize a list of twenty-five first names and a list of twenty-five surnames. This will allow you to combine them convincingly whenever you need.”

She tried to laugh breezily, but it probably came out as more of a nervous bray. “Convincing lie? I’m not lying. Threem and I are very happy.”

Sherlock only raised his eyebrows at her.  “Who is it really? I won’t be angry.”

“Really, Sherlock it’s no—wait, why  _would_  you be angry?”

“I just said I won’t be,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked… nervous?

Molly’s eyes narrowed. “You said you wouldn’t be angry if I told you. Meaning you might be angry if I don’t. Why?”

He scratched his neck, glowering mutinously. “We’re friends. We reveal things to each other. Secret worries, names of significant others, favored sexual positions.”

“I don’t think most ‘friends’ would appreciate you asking them their favorite sexual pos—“

“My point,” he interrupted loudly, “is that you can trust me with the name of your latest conquest.”

“Conquest? I’m not Don Quixote.”

He straightened like a dog on the scent. “Is that who you’re seeing?  Who is this  _Don Quixote_? Have you made sure he doesn’t just want in your knickers and isn’t out to murder you?”

“I’m an intelligent adult with good reasoning, thank you,” she said drily. “Jim was a very manipulative exception and you know it.”

“And what does Mr. Quixote do for a living?” he demanded, not to be dissuaded.

“Tilts at windmills, mainly,” she said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Never mind. I’m not dating Don Quixote, Sherlock.”

He made a frustrated sound. “Then tell me:  who do you love?”

Nerves frayed, too, Molly burst out, “You, you clot! I’m still in love with you! This is hardly news, so don’t get all shocked. And I like Reverse Cowgirl best!” Molly cut off, thinking back on her outburst. “You know, since we’re friends who share that information,” she petered out pathetically.

He straightened, his face once again slack. Staring. Staring. Staring.

Just as Molly began to worry that she’d broken her Sherlock, his lips slowly curved in a pleased smile.  “Very well. This has been a productive morning. I’d best be off. Lots to do, crimes to solve. You know how it is.”

Molly looked on in stunned silence as he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pen and a pad of 3M Post-its. He quickly scribbled something on the top sheet and daintily peeled it away from its pad. He stuck the freed note dead center of the corpse’s sternum, taking time to press down on the adhesive strip. Hurrying back around the slab, he ducked his head and pressed a shy kiss on Molly’s head. And then he was gone, the morgue doors swinging behind him.

She had to crane her head and decipher the upside-down writing on the note.  
  


She beamed at the message. Of course it was natural causes. She hadn’t needed him to tell her that, but she appreciated the gesture, nonetheless.

As she set to stapling Mr. Mayberry’s skullcap back on, Molly wondered idly if there’d be a way to tear away the corner of the paper that had gotten a little brain juice on it without sacrificing the entire note.

Something told her she’d want to keep it forever.


	16. Staring Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from sherlollysnog: Molly catches Sherlock staring at her in the lab. Snogs ensue. (I never made it to the lab bit. Whoops).

* * *

At first, Molly only feels it: a prickling on the back of her neck like someone is holding a statically charged balloon close enough to her nape that the tiny hairs there stand on end. But when she looks up from where she stands at the cooker, stirring a saucepan of gravy, all she sees is the distracted bustle of her friends as they hurry to put dinner on the table.

Well, most of them.

One, in particular, is glowering from his  ~~throne~~  chair, looking impatient and uncaring that everyone else is working while he sits there. He drums his fingers on his armrests and flicks his gaze around. And then his eyes meet hers, and she would swear that he starts when he finds her watching him.

She offers him a small smile and then tilts her head toward the piles of plates, flatware, and napkins waiting to be arranged, currently stacked on the shelf above her head.

His eyebrows wing up in confusion.

She jerks her head in the shelf’s direction and even points helpfully.

He looks far to the right of where the plates await him, his brow furrows, and then he returns his gaze to her and shrugs.

Eyes narrowing, Molly mouths,  _Would you please lay the table?_

Sherlock’s hands spread in a posture of pure helplessness, his face mournful.  _I can’t understand you,_  he mouths back.

Not to be outdone, she gives him a rude, two-finger gesture.  _Can you understand this?_

His lips actually twitch, and then he’s jumping to his feet and bounding into the kitchen. “You can’t keep me out of here another second, John,” he exclaims boisterously.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a muffled curse slips past John’s lips. “I asked you to help twenty minutes ago. I asked you to make the gravy, and, yet, there’s Mol—”

"There’s  _got_  to be something I can do,” Sherlock interrupts, looking around innocently. “Oh! I’ll lay the table! I wish someone had mentioned it needed doing. But I understand you’re all too busy discussing direly important things such as who’s sleeping with whom on  _WestSiders_.”

Molly considers it her sworn duty to elbow him in the belly as he reaches over her to grab the table settings. He makes a hmphing sound and bumps her with his shoulder but gives no other reaction, so she also loudly proclaims, “You know it’s  _EastEnders_ , Sherlock. You asked me to record it for you two days ago. No need to be coy with us.”

The mutinous cast to his face is triumph enough for her.

"It was for a case," he mutters.

"And when you screeched at me not to spoil it for you, that was…?"

"Research," he says stiffly. "And I do  _not_  screech.

Her lips curving in an evil grin, she turns from the cooker again to face Sherlock where he stands at the table, plunking down plates with little care. “So you won’t mind me telling you that Cindy is pr—”

"Molly!"

She cackles before remembering she needs to be stirring. No one likes lumpy gravy, after all.

* * *

Throughout dinner, she feels it again. It’s such a strange hyper-awareness, but she can’t pinpoint what it is for. When she looks up from her food, everything seems normal. Mary and John are telling an amusing story, Greg is pouring another glass of wine for Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock seems to be conducting a thorough investigation of his side salad. He is staring at it with such dedication, she worries it will wilt under his gaze.

All is as it should be. If Mary and John weren’t speaking, if Mrs. Hudson had passed up that second glass of good wine, or if Sherlock were to suddenly become the sparkling life of the dinner party, she would worry. As it is, she is perfectly content. It’s just….there’s still something niggling at her mind. Something she’s  _just_  missing.

It’s only after Greg asks Molly a question during dessert that she realizes what it is. She barely catches it out of the corner of her eye. Long after she has finished her brief, cheerful answer, Sherlock continues to look at her. From her periphery, she can see him toying with the stem of his wineglass, his gaze never wavering.

Is he annoyed with her? Is he waiting to get her attention? Or is he just caught in a stare as he thinks about blood agar? She can’t tell with such a limited view, so she turns her head infinitesimally to get a better read on his expression. The minute her chin tilts even the slightest, though, Sherlock goes back to looking at his plate.

She brushes it off. He was probably just pondering murder.

* * *

The party moves to the lounge, and Sherlock’s groan only sort of resembles a death rattle when Mary suggests they play a board game. John waves him away, telling him to go catalog the paint chips or something if it’s so distasteful to him

Sherlock seemingly complies. He prowls the perimeter of the room as they play, not looking overly bothered that they’ve taken over his flat, at least. On occasion, he leans over the table and completely ruins a player’s intended move, but otherwise, he stays quiet.

When Molly manages to take the lead, she crows good naturedly while everyone else grumbles. Pretending to look sheepish, she quiets down and begins strategizing her next move. It’s as she does this that she feels the hairs on her neck stand on end again.

Through her lashes, she darts her eyes around, thinking maybe Sherlock is just  _looming_  behind her, as he is wont, but she realizes he’s on the far side of the room from her. He leans casually against the window frame, and the tilt of his head gives a first impression of staring to the street below. But she can see the light catching on the silvery blue of his eyes, directed to her.

She squints at her tiles, trying desperately to check the impulse to pat her hair and run her tongue over her teeth for stray bits of tonight’s roast. Sherlock shows no indication of looking away, but he’s also not spoken out loud about her appearance. What is it that has caught his attention?

Deciding to catch him out, Molly looks over at him quickly, and Sherlock looks back at her for just a moment before his eyes skitter away and he shoves his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat as he meanders to the other window, his back now to her. She shrugs and turns back to the game.

It’s all a bit odd, but then, it is Sherlock.

“This is going to end abysmally,” Greg moans as he lays out his final play.

Molly turns Sherlock, expecting a snarky, “Consider the source,” but he’s not paying attention to the game. No, he’s turned around from the window and is once again watching her. Brow furrowing, Molly manages to play her turn, handily winning the game. She stands and curtsies to her reluctant admirers. When she spots Sherlock pacing toward the kitchen, she improvises and offers to get the wine for a nightcap.

“What is it?” she confronts him as soon as the chatter in the other room takes off again.

“A Malbec. Probably a good year, but the vintner who handled this bottle was a compulsive masturbator,” Sherlock says blithely.

Though she wrinkles her nose and silently hopes the vintner’s compulsions didn’t interfere with his work in too disgusting a way, she shakes her head. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Staring?” he asks defensively. “Who’s staring? I’m not staring. Maybe you were confusing me with you.”

It’s the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of ‘Your  _face_  is staring,’ and she doesn’t accept it as a comeback. “I’ve caught you watching me three times tonight. Is something the matter?”

His brow furrows and he blatantly studies her for a moment before shaking his head. “I observe people, Molly. It’s what I do.”

”Then what about me has you making so many observations tonight?” she challenges.

“You’ve changed,” he says shortly.

“Have not.” Petulantly, she shakes her head before deciding it’d probably be best to clarify. “What do you mean by ‘changed’?”

“I can’t identify it.”

Molly frowns. “Tell me what seems different and maybe I can tell you what you’re missing.”

“Your perfume is different?”

“No, it’s not.”

“You have a new cat that is shedding all over you.”

Starting to enjoy herself, she shakes her head.

“ _You’ve_  become a compulsive masturbator?” he asks hopefully and then seems to realize what he’s just asked her, if the slight flush means anything.

“Um, no. just fairly regular, I would say,” she says, trying to sound worldly and unbothered.

His eyes darken slightly and his is mouth works for a moment before he moves on and scans the rest of her. “You cut off a quarter inch of your hair.”

“Yes, two weeks ago. There you go!” she says encouragingly

“But that’s not it,” he sighs, agitated.

“I am in new shoes tonight. Maybe the height and arch speak of some latent fear of llamas? In my attempt to be taller than the dastardly llamas, I’ve become a different, enigmatic person. Maybe it means my  _mother_  was a llama! It all goes back to Freud, doesn’t it?” she teases.

“You’re not afraid of llamas. You have a llama-print jumper,” he says, waving away her wholly-reasonable idea.

“I do love that jumper,” she agrees, and then waits patiently while he stares at her some more.

“The thing is,” Sherlock murmurs, looking her over again and again, “it’s been bothering me for some time. I’m missing something, and it is driving me insane. To the point that missing it has me thinking about it even when you’re not around. I can’t stop”

Her heart thuds in her chest. “Oh?” she asks, her voice breathy.

He nods, still staring at her.

“So allow me to restate the facts. You find yourself thinking about me a lot, and you can’t stop, and you can’t identify why? Is that fair?” She takes a cautious step closer to him

He runs through mental files, making sure she’s provided an accurate summation. “Yes, that would be it.”

“Sherlock?” she whispers, her heart thudding almost painfully as she takes another step forward.

“Hmm?” He watches her painfully slow approach but does nothing to stop her.

When she reaches him, she tentatively brings her hands up to his waist, feeling the heat of his skin through the fine material of his shirt. Tipping up onto her toes, using him as a pillar in her vulnerability, she breaths into his ear, “Is it—would it be possible that the thing that you’re missing is just… _me_?”

He straightens a little, his body jerking at her words. But he doesn’t push her away. He doesn’t scoff at her. In fact, he just sucks in a gasp of air. And then turns his head and really  _looks_  at her.

“And here you are,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “And here I am.”

Just as Sherlock ducks his head and touches his lips to hers, John’s voice filters into the kitchen.

“Molly, I know you prefer the swill that comes in twist-off cap bottles, but are you really having that much trouble with the cor—” Footsteps come to a dead halt at the doorjamb, and the couple in kitchen exchanges stares with the new arrival.

”But,” John says weakly, “you were just running to get the wine, Molly. That’s all this was supposed to be: an innocent wine run.”

“My fault, I’m afraid,” Sherlock says, though he doesn’t release his hold on her. “I asked Molly about her masturbation habits and lost track of the time.”

“Of all the things that have just happened, that’s what you choose to bring up?” she asks, dismayed.

He shrugs modestly “It stuck with me.”

“I really don’t think I’ll ask,” John says vehemently, slowly backing away. “Very happy for you both. You two are perfect each other. Enjoy the masturbation. I mean… erm…. Yes.” And then he’s hurrying away, and they can hear squawking and furious whispers from the other room.

“Well that went well. Shall we retire to the bedroom?” Sherlock says, waggling his eyebrows at Molly and giving her bum a friendly pat.

“No. We’re going to go finish the evening with our friends. Then we can renegotiate.”

He sighs, put upon. “Why?”

Molly pulls him down for a warm kiss. “Just consider it the loser’s lot.”

“Loser?” He looks mildly offended.

Nodding, she pecks him once more. “You blinked first.”

* * *

 


	17. In Good Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hislastval and Anonymous gave me this prompt: Anything with drunk Sherlock and Molly. :)

* * *

They sit across the table from each other, hands flat on the scarred wood. Neither of them shifts on the uncomfortable, wooden seats. Instead, the utter stillness of the pair makes the tick of the mantle clock and the din of outside traffic that much louder. Even the light clattering of the landlady’s heels on laminate flooring below becomes an echoing boom.

It’s not a staring contest. They aren’t afraid to blink at each other. In fact, the narrowing of eyes and the intensely furrowed brows only issue that much more of a challenge.

A car horn beeps. Downstairs, the vacuum cleaner hums to life, and then one half of the pair lets out an unattractive sound; a bastardized impression of a buzzer. It breaks the spell along with the strange brand of loud silence.

"Oh dear. I do believe you’ve just forfeited your decision." Sherlock Holmes’ face wrinkles into a sneer at his foe. "You know the terms.

"I was still thinking!" Molly Hooper protests. "I was going to go with ‘Dare’."

But he’s shaking his head. “I’m afraid the rules stipulate that you only have thirty seconds to decide. I want you to lick the salt from….” His pale eyes flicker in consideration. “My wrist. Salud.”

Grumbling, Molly sloshes some amber liquid in a small beaker before yanking an unsteady Sherlock’s arm over to her (he has to grab the table edge to keep from face-planting into the plate of lime wedges situated between them), licking his wrist and sprinkling a liberal portion of salt onto his skin. Her eyes challenge him as she laps at the salt, but he only grins goofily back at her, humming in apparent approval of her actions. She finally releases him (again, he wobbles), knocks back the dreaded tequila, and shoves a piece of lime into her mouth in quick succession.

"You know," Sherlock muses blearily after he’s finished guffawing at her sour expression, "I didn’t care for your suggestion at first, but I am seeing more and more merit the longer we play this drinking game."

Though she’s still shaking her head at the strong liquor currently burning its way down her esophagus, she manages to respond. “You’re just saying that because you’ve only had to take one shot.

This quiets his chortling as he thinks on it. “Why do I feel drunker than you look?” He squints at her, as if trying to see a secret spout that is merely draining the liquor she’s imbibed down the back of her neck.

Shrugging modestly, Molly offers trite comfort. “Some people just walk in the light, you know?”

"That is not a scientifically sound answer, I am certain."

"Then I’ll just say your youthful, unsullied liver is admirable, but, ultimately, it will only lead to your downfall, boyo." She smirks evilly in anticipation of impending triumph.

"Boyo?" he slurs, "Molly, I had no idea liquor would turn you into an old Irish man sitting in a peaty pub."

She snorts, enjoying the warm fuzziness that is starting to set in. And then, apropos of very little, “Last time I was in Ireland, I tried to steal a sheep.”

"Because you decided to start spinning wool yarn?"

Her head shake is vehement. “My Auntie Eunice used to poke me with a knitting needle when I misbehaved. I’ve been afraid of yarn ever since,” she says, a far-off look in her eye. “So, no.”

Though he spares a moment to feel spite for this faceless Auntie Eunice, he presses Molly on her sordid visit across the Irish Sea. “Someone paid you to sabotage a rival farmer’s means of income.” He smirks triumphantly. Deductive skills: good as ever.

"What? No! I was eight. Hardly contract-sheep-thieving material. I wanted to save her. She was an old thing, and they were going to turn her into mutton," she explains sullenly.

Though something tells him that he’d normally think it stupid, Sherlock is impressed by Molly’s bad-girl streak, and his eyes get a little misty at her willingness to save any number of mislaid creatures, himself included.

He also decides then and there that he would probably win if she were forced to choose between saving him and saving a sheep now. “I smell better,” he says out loud in support of his solid reasoning.

As usual, she seems to know what he’s thinking, and she frowns. “You’ve made it a habit to go skip-diving and come back smelling like hot rubbish. The sheep would win hands-down in those instances.”

"Did it work?" he asks, not dignifying the jibe with a response. It was only one skip, and there is no need for such blatant exaggeration.

"The skip-diving? Well, you certainly discovered some marvelous, new stenches." And then off his drunken glare, "Oh, you mean the sheep thievery?

Sherlock nods.

"In a way. My grandparents caught me trying to lead her out of the back paddock and their shouting scared her. She bit me and then bolted. Not sure if they ever found her."

"I imagine they left her alone and she came home, wagging her tail behind her," he says sweetly. But then he ruins it. "And then they ate her once you’d gone back to England."

Molly doesn’t react much. Only her lips move in silent realization. She shakes her head and brightens. “Drink or dare, Boffin?”

"Neither if you call me that."

"Pick one."

He sighs gustily. “Very well. Dare.”

Her snicker sends waves of foreboding coursing through him. “I dare you to drink three shots. Your choice for where you lick the salt.”

Damn it. Although…His lips curl at the small glimpse of a tiny, satin bow nestled against her sternum, peeking from the drooping neckline of her blouse.

It is his choice, after all.

* * *

**_45 minutes later_ **

* * *

"Sherlock," John Watson calls as he jogs up the stairs and into the lounge of 221b. "Lestrade has been trying reach you for the last thirty min— Jesus!" he cuts off with a loud curse and whirls around to face the damask wallpaper. _  
_

Movement in his periphery has John risking a side-glance. Something he regrets when he sees Sherlock staggering around on his hands and knees, grabbing a plaid blouse, a lacy bra, and a purple shirt, tossing them over his shoulder in the general vicinity of where he and Molly Hooper had been… situated.

"Perhaps a text explaining that you had plans would have been good, mate. And maybe a locked door," John murmurs to Sherlock. "Hi Molly, by the way," he raises his voice slightly in feigned nonchalance. She manages an embarrassed return of his greeting, and he can hear her trying to dress hastily.

John’s best friend,however, is very nearly ten sheets to the wind. Sherlock doesn’t respond other than to sit back on his haunches and frown in concentration. “What is it?” John asks nervously.

"Something tells me," Sherlock says slowly, ponderously, "that I’ve lost my pants."

Coughing, John scratches the back of his neck. “You’re still wearing them.”

Sherlock looks down at his lap and frowns. “Are they the emperor’s new pants? They seem to have turned invisible.”

This, John thinks, is what death feels like. He can’t say he cares for it. “Erm… no. They’re… they’re caught on your ankles.

Sherlock raises up onto his knees and looks behind him, and then beams in drunken relief. “Excellent. They’re my favorite pair. Molly was  _just_  complimenting me on the color. Weren’t you, Molly?” he says cheerfully, turning to the woman behind them

"That’s right. But why don’t you pull them back up, and maybe let John escape?" she coaxes.

Sherlock shrugs, standing up and yanking his underwear back on, letting the elastic snap at his hips. “Fine by me. Leave, Greg,” he says distractedly, already making his way back to the other end of the room and to Molly.

Though John was never the fastest runner in his battalion, he is fairly certain he beats his personal best careening out of the flat and away from the sight of Sherlock—the man whom he considers to be his brother—naked and fully aroused. And what of Molly? Poor, exposed Molly, who maintained her composure the entire, trying time?

Well. He wishes her all the best, but she’s on her own now.

If the happy squeal John hears as he shoots out of the door is any indication, she doesn’t seem overly concerned.

* * *

 


	18. Costa is for Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few stories are from an AU Prompt meme over on Tumblr. 
> 
> [Sundance201](sundance201.tumblr.com) requested a Coffee Shop AU. It's was my first attempt at this trope and I probably failed miserably but it gave me the chance to namedrop my favorite coffee chain in the world. 
> 
> Totally random aside: Costa used to sell these drinks called Hot Chocolate Oranges. I gorged on them. I finally learned why I loved them as much as I did: they put triple sec in them. And then I loved them even more. Gosh, I miss those drinks.

When Molly first notices him, he is crouched in front of the pastry display. Only a complete optimist would call his expression complimentary. Sneering would be a better description. Even hunkered over, she can tell that he is a tall man and somehow, she knows he likely uses it to his advantage. His patrician profile speaks of privilege and posh disconnect. His scowl speaks of outright rudeness.

Right then and there, she decides she really doesn’t like him.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asks, keeping her tone friendly as she leans against the till, waiting for his attention.

Instead of replying, he actually pulls out an honest-to-god magnifying glass and pores over the pastry and biscuit offerings once more, squinting and glowering in turn.

Noticing a queue starting to form behind the man, Molly clears her throat.  When he continues as if he hasn’t heard her, she smiles at the impatient looking woman behind him. “While this gentleman decides, what can I get for you?”

The harried customer skirts around the human impediment, nearly tripping on the hem of his impressive coat, but manages to catch herself before she goes sprawling. The man does tear his eyes away from his magnifying glass at this, only to sniff daintily at the woman and pull his coat hem in.

Molly takes orders from all five of the customers who line up behind the man while he remains stolidly silent. When a lull once again settles in, she cleans the steamer on the espresso machine and idly watches the stranger, now crawling around on his hands and knees alround the perimeter of the counter. She doesn’t _think_ he’s dangerous, but she doesn’t care for his unsettling presence, either.

Just as she decides to ring the management, however, he jumps to his feet hurriedly and cocks an impatient brow, silently summoning her.

It’s _so_ tempting to ignore him, but she reminds herself that he’ll leave more quickly if she just plays the role of Dutiful Employee.

“Did you discover a portal to another dimension?” she asks, taking a stab at being affable.

He doesn’t look impressed. “No, but I did discover that this coffee shop’s owner and the supervisor over at the Sustainable Bean across the street are one in the same.” His generous lips make a moue of fake regret. “Naughty.”

“Oh, I figured that out _ages_ ago,” she laughs.

The man actually blinks at her. “Y—you…. No you didn’t.”

Molly shrugs. “Sure I did. They both have the same crown on their second, left, mandibular molar.”

If his silence is anything to go by, the man is at a loss. Soon, though, his expression shifts so he’s looking at her with intrigue rather than dismissal.

“You’re a dentistry student. You hope to drill teeth to your heart’s content one day. You already have minuscule flecks of enamel on your jumper; didn’t wash out. Sadists often go for that job. Tell me, do you like to deal out pain?”

Not able to suppress a genuine smile, she replies, “All that based on my identification of my boss-slash-competitor’s teeth?”

He nods curtly. “And the small marks from a drill bit on your index finger and thumb. From drilling into something of low density, but you were still using a practiced hand. You’d want to be careful with someone’s pearly whites.”

“That’s an amazing supposition,” she enthuses.

“It’s not a supposition, it’s a deduction. It’s what I do.”

Nodding, Molly turns and pops a filter of fresh grounds into the dark roast’s tray, flicking on the maker 

“It would be more amazing if it were right,” she continues .

His satisfied smirk falters. “What?”

“I can see why you drew that conclusion. But you missed the gram stains on my wrist and the scalpel scar on my palm. I do like bone drills, though. But I prefer to use them on people who aren’t quite as susceptible to pain. And it’s hyaline, not enamel.”

She can tell he is recalculating, possibly wondering if she goes and uses the drill on comatose patients. Finally, though, his whole face brightens momentarily, only to be shuttered in a mask of indifference once more. “Pathology.”

Instead of confirming, she just smiles and asks, “What would you like to order?” Suddenly, she finds her first impression shifting. She can’t help but like this strange man. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s rather beautiful.

“Tall drip. Black, two sugars. Why haven’t you reported your boss? He’s on the make.”

Molly shrugs as she moves over to the carafe of fresh brew and pours out a cup. “I thought it was a bizarre way of keeping track of the employees. You know,  _Undercover Boss-_ style. While the cat’s away and all that. Plus, he treats us fairly and pays well for this sort of job.”

He scoffs but doesn’t comment. When she puts the coffee down in front of him, though, he does scowl. “Where’s the sugar?”

She wordlessly puts two packets down in front of him.  He palms them with a curt, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Good work on the boss thing. Was it for the police?”

He shakes his head. “Hired by the owner of the Sustainable Bean. Apparently your shop got in some financial trouble, so Mr. Smythe is enacting a little corporate espionage, doctoring the his rival's books when he can get a moment alone with their computers.”

“And the Sustainable Bean owners didn't notice until now?” she asks, baffled.

“People are idiots.” His tone is too languid to be caustic, but it’s a close call.

Molly rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

He carefully considers her for a moment. “No, you’re… you’re not exactly the same. You’re….” He peters out. And then he wanders away without another word and sits down at a table, staring hard at his coffee, leaving a baffled Molly in his wake.

She spots the moment he realizes that she’d written her name and number on his cup and she hurries into the back room, nervous and not sure what drove her to do it. Odd, since she normally prides herself on her confidence.

When she hears the door chime, she forces herself to return to the front. She has to tamp down a small bit of disappointment when she sees his retreating figure, striding down the pavement without glancing back.

She goes over to tidy the table and nearly misses the tiny, messy writing on the used sugar packets as she clears them away.

The first one says  _Sherlock Holmes_   _0774 212 3982_

The second one asks,   _Would you like to solve crimes?_

Molly pockets the packets with a smile, planning to program Sherlock’s number into her mobile. She  _will_  call him, she decides.

Returning to the till, she gazes around the empty coffee shop, listening to the piped, mellow music. Her eyes fall on the pastry display and she frowns. He never said what he was looking at in there or what he found so distasteful, but she decides it’s probably kinder to herself that she not find out.

For now, she’ll buy her croissants from Cafe Nero down the road.


	19. All the Men and Women, Merely Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an AU Prompt Meme on Tumblr, Anonymous requested a Costars AU.

“I'm sorry.  _Who'_ s been cast as the male lead?” Molly Hooper asked, hoping she just had pool water stuck in her ears from her early-morning swim. Surely she’d misheard.

Her agent’s response was no more comforting on the repetition, and Molly could only let out a small groan as he continued to chatter. She fell back onto her bed, staring up at the strange forms in the ceiling’s texture. Batting her cat away when he tried to lie down across her face, she struggled back up, realizing Mike Stamford was waiting for a response from her. She’d drifted, but she imagined he’d been extolling the virtues of her ostensible costar.

“Mike, I’d planned to take more time off after my dad’s death.“

“I know, Molly, but Mary Morstan is directing! Chances like these don’t come around every day. And  _Stefanie Hero_  is little enough known that it’s your chance to make it a definitive role.”

She shook her head, sighing. “But Sherlock Holmes—“

“I’m sure he’ll be the picture of professionalism. No one’s tried to throw a punch at him during rehearsal in years. People say he’s become very nearly _decent.”_  

 _That’s what I’m afraid of._ Though she didn’t say it aloud, she the nerves clawed at her. And although she’d told Mike that she wanted time to mourn, she’d not been entirely honest. She was now at a point where work would be the best catharsis. She bit her lip, conflicted. Mary Morstan wanted  _her,_ had been courting her for the role persistently for over a month now. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad.  Maybe Mike was right.

Sighing, she nodded, and then remembered that her agent couldn’t see her. “I’ll call Mary myself. To  _discuss_  it,” she hastened to add at Mike’s triumphant tone. “I’m not fully convinced, but I don’t want her to think I’m playing hard-to-get.”

Mike jovially rang off, promising to be in touch the next day. Before he disconnected, he repeated his earlier sentiments about Sherlock. “Don’t let old stories and misapprehensions ruin an amazing opportunity,” he chided her, not unkindly.

As soon as she was sure that the call had ended, she turned to her cat, now lying on his back and pawing at her hand for belly rubs.  Complying, she sighed. “If only it were just the stories that had me worried.”

She listened to the wall clock ticking and the cat’s deep purrs in her otherwise silent flat. She lectured herself and consoled herself. And then finally, she decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. Unlocking her phone, she pulled up a contact she’d not spoken to in three years. Sucking in a bolstering breath, she quickly typed:

_Hi Sherlock. It’s been awhile. I would like to talk to you, if you’re willing. Can we meet? – Molly_

The response came in less than a minute.

_Costa Coffee, 124 Baker St, 13:00.  – SH_

* * *

She sat in the back of the café, facing out into the restaurant. She’d done it with the intent of seeing him arrive, giving her a few seconds to gather herself once their meeting became inevitable ( _as if it isn’t already_ , she thought). Instead of scanning the bustle of patrons, though, she stared down at her teacup. Miserably, she watched the milk she’d poured several minutes ago swirl lazily on the surface, waiting for her to stir it.

It would have been easier if Sherlock had shown some sort of emotion in his text. No greeting. No parting words. Just an address, a time, and his initials. The tone might have been a cold acquiescence to her request, or it might have been Sherlock, merely being his normal, abrupt self. He’d never been one to use ten words where five would do.  His succinct manner, as ever, was Molly’s disadvantage.

She shivered and cupped the ceramic cup, taking what warmth she could from it. A voice in her head was protesting her even being there.  _What will this accomplish?_

 _You know what it will accomplish,_ answered a second, sly voice.  _It’s only what you’ve been thinking of doing for two years now. How handy to have an excuse to dial that number._

She shook her head, and studiously began spooning lump after lump of sugar into her tea until it was almost thick with the stuff.

“I see some things haven’t changed,” a deep voice said in front of her.

Molly couldn’t help the startled gasp, nor could she fully ignore the warm quiver that ran through her as she fought down memories that it elicited. Slowly, she lifted her gaze and let her eyes meet his silvery ones for the first time in... oh, too long.

“Hello, Molly,” he said softly.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she breathed.

They stared at one another, not trying to further the conversation. Two of England’s most sought-after stage actors, known for their delivery, their projection, and the emotion they could put behind the simplest of words in this small, chain coffee shop. And yet here they were, not speaking, at a loss for words.

While others might see Sherlock Holmes, Thespian and Olivier Award winner, all Molly Hooper could was the man whose heart she’d broken three years earlier, just as he’d broken hers.

“May I sit?” he asked carefully, breaking the silence, though his eyes continued to drink her in like a man in a desert seeing a mirage.

Wordlessly, she nodded. And when he his lips curved as he pulled off his coat, she could do nothing but return the smile shyly. 


	20. A Mnemonic Necessity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an AU Prompt Meme on Tumblr, Anonymous requested a Movie Amnesia AU. This didn't quite meet the strictures of 'AU' but oh well.

He knows this isn’t good. He knows he is a selfish man and that, were he to tell John about it, his friend would go on a rant to end all rants. Molly's health is what's important. The fact that her condition isn't worse. Not Sherlock's mewling disappointment about a recoverable memory.

He tells himself to be pleased that, if there is  _any_  silver lining to Molly Hooper’s traumatic brain injury, it’s this opportunity. Besides, it’s not like Sherlock was doing anything to address the issue before she lost her memory of it.

But… he feels a loss keenly as he stands beside the exam table, seeing her frown in concentration as she looks up at him, and he allows himself 

“I still know your name,” she says a little impatiently when he introduces himself again (as he had twice since running into the A&E after hearing she’d been brought in after a slip on the ice). Her voice is scratchy from disuse, and her pallor has him worried.

“And?” he prompts.

“You’re a detective.” She looks at him for pregnant moment.

“ _Consulting_  detective,” he corrects, though he likes to think his tone is gentle.

She might not agree, since she rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know that, too. I just was saving time on saying it all.”

Bristling, Sherlock defends himself, “They tell me you have a bad concussion and retrograde amnesia. How am I to know what you have and haven’t forgotten?”

“I’ve hardly forgotten _anything,"_ she snips, "I just am having trouble pulling in certain details.”

 _Don’t I know it_ , Sherlock thinks grimly.

“And I keep forgetting the time,” she adds on as an afterthought.

“That might not be the amnesia. You’re often late,” he says swiftly, hoping to comfort her. Her beady-eyed glare tells him that he hasn’t. When her face clouds with upset, he rushes to add, “Not _that_ late!”

Shaking her head, Molly dismisses his panic. “It’s not that. But I just…. I can remember certain things that we’ve done together, but I can tell there’s something missing.”

This perks Sherlock up minutely. “Oh?” he asks. He studies the table's guard rail casually.

“We’re friends,” she says, though this time she pokes him, prompting him to confirm.

Though it might be a vulnerability, he softly admits, “Yes, very good friends.”

“I remember working in the St. Barts lab together. Some parties and weddings, too.” She hasn’t asked him to verify, so he assumes that she’s not wondering about these events. Squinting, she eyes him. “And I remember helping you fake your death.”

He nods again, hoping he isn’t looking too eager, like a hyper dog anticipating a treat.

Unexpectedly, she jerks her head back, a startled expression falling across her face for the first time. “Do… do I let you sleep in my bed a lot?”

Molly doesn’t sound particularly titillated by the though. It stings.

“Well,” he answers, trying not to sound too sullen, “we are _good_ friends.”

“I remember several good friends. I don’t remember sharing beds with them. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I wouldn’t have thought that would interest me. Is that something I’ve forgotten? Does our circle of friends jump from bed to bed? Greg is rather dishy, and Mary’s quite attractive, but I thought—”

 “No!” he spits frustratedly, and now she’s squinting at him, suspicious.

“So you and I are, what, sex buddies?”

Somehow, Sherlock manages not to say, _Aspiring to that and more,_ out loud. Instead, he just dumbly shakes his head in the negative.

“How are we feeling, Miss Hooper?” A jovial voice impedes on the moment, and Molly and Sherlock watch a nurse wheel a cart with a computer on it into the room.

Molly, who once told Sherlock that she hates when people ask that, sweetly says, “ _We’re_  fine. How are  _we_?”

“Not bad, not bad,” he answers distractedly, busily taking note of her vitals and other measurements coming from the beeping machines by her bed. “Nasty blow to your cranium there, but it sounds like this retrograde amnesia is nothing too crucial.”

“That’s what you think,” Sherlock mutters. Unfortunately, not quietly enough, because Molly’s head snaps around to look at him.

“You  _know?_  You know what I’ve forgotten and you haven’t told me?”

He makes sure his expression is stony and impassive. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it’s not ‘nothing’ if you see fit to lament it being gone.”

Her pulse-ox starts to blip a little more insistently, and nurse shuffles his feet nervously. “Now, let’s calm down here, Miss Hooper,” he says, giving a pained chuckle. “Not good for the old thinker to get agitated and we want to discharge you.”

“It’s  _Doctor_  Hooper,” she snarls before whirling back to look at Sherlock, who has edged just the slightest bit away from her be. “Tell me.”

“No, it’s nothing.” He is sure he can’t be faulted for trying.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I want to know what I’ve forgotten.”

_Oh, so she remembers your full name but she can’t be bothered to remember this one tiny detail._

He straightens, trying to make his posture more authoritative. “You’re not supposed to strain yourself trying to remember things. Your doctor just told you so twenty minutes ago.” And then wheeling to look at the nurse, he demands, “Isn’t that so?”

Looking like he’d rather be dealing with a tuberculosis outbreak than be in this hospital room, the nurse mutters, “Actually, mate, I think you’re making her strain more by not just telling her—“

“Ah ha!” Molly exclaims, pointing at Sherlock. “You’re hurting my brain by not telling me!”

“FINE!” he shouts, before several, accusatory hushing noises filter into the room. He lowers his voice but none of its intensity. “If you really must know, you’ve forgotten that you’re in love with me! You remember every other bloody thing, but you’ve forgotten that you used to be astoundingly smitten and now you’re not, and I don’t like it one bit!”

Molly and nurse both blink at Sherlock’s outburst as he breathes deeply, slightly winded from the high emotions zinging around the room.

“So, have I also forgotten that  _you’re_  in love with  _me_?” she asks, confused.

It’s Sherlock’s turn to shuffle his feet. “Well,” he stutters awkwardly, “it hadn’t really come up until now….” His eyes dart away from hers.

The room is quiet, only interrupted by squealing wheels as the nurse backs hastily out of the room, pulling his computer cart with him.  The awful quiet remains once the door to the exam room snicks dhut.

“I can’t remember my official work title,” she offers helpfully.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

She shrugs. “I just wanted you to know that I have forgotten a few things that are very important to me. It isn’t personal.”

Sighing, Sherlock sits at the end of her bed, aware of her bare foot pressed against his hip and lower back. “You’ll remember these things. You’ll also remember that you have been trying actively not to be in love with me for several years now.”

“Successfully?” she asks.

“To a small degree,” he says, thinking of her failed engagement.

“And do you wish I had been successful? Or that I won’t remember these feelings now?” she asks, her voice strained.

Spreading his fingers, Sherlock stares at his hands for several moments before he looks back to her. “No, I do not wish it. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Well then,” she says, and when she holds out her hand, he takes it without pause. “Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I’m Molly Hooper, and I feel confident in saying that soon, I’ll be a Molly Hooper who loves you very much.”

He smiles shyly. “I’ll look forward to meeting her.”


	21. The Pretzel Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested a Meeting a Pub AU.

When the drunk woman fell into his lap, Sherlock Holmes didn’t think his face brooked any sort of humorous exchange.

Unfortunately, she’d clearly had three—no, four fruity drinks, and her ability to recognize such social cues had gone to the wind along with those three sheets people always mentioned.

“Sorry!” she laughed, beaming at him. Her brown eyes were a bit bleary, her face red, and her long, brown hair a tangled mop. “I lost my footing.”

When the pub became almost too loud to bear, it was so crowded, Sherlock had nearly left then and there; however, he remembered as he turned to the door that he was tailing someone and he needed to get the case over and done with.  With a put-upon feeling of doom, he’d collapsed on a sofa, intent on suffering in silence. His mark well occupied with a game on the telly, Sherlock had set to nursing a scotch and thumbing through crime scene photographs on his mobile.

Now, he looked down at the stranger invading his personal space, hoping she’d take the hint and clamber off of him. When she only looked expectantly at him, clearly hoping he’d excuse her gaffe, he smiled thinly. “No problem. But I’m sure your friends would like for you to return to them and continue to, er…  _tear up the dance floor.”_

The woman snorted indelicately. “Dancing to early nineties alternative?The only thing I’d end up tearing is a ligament. I need to take a moment. Everything’s spinny.” She smiled up at Sherlock some more, before he finally started to shift, trying to move her off of him. “Oh! Sorry! Again!”

She laughed entirely too much. And smiled. And looked at him, really.

As she started to scoot off of his lap, she said, “I’m Molly, by the way—ooh! Look, a poisoning victim!”

That got Sherlock’s attention. She’d stolen a glance at his mobile’s screen. He turned his head to stare at her. Toppling in a heap on the couch cushion, she moved herself into a sitting position and leaned into him a little to get a better look and the photograph.

“What kind of poison did him in?” With this new diversion, her consonants weren't as slurred.

Though a voice in his head told him not to encourage her, he asked, “How do you know it was poison?”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “People don’t vomit and then asphyxiate due to throat constriction when they’re healthy. He clearly did both.” She stabbed a finger at the screen. “See? Vomit aaaaaand”—she spun her finger around theatrically before landing on a second part of the picture, and Sherlock rolled his eyes—“foam around the mouth, the result of constriction in the throat and larynx.”

“He could have had a violent stomach flu and choked on his own vomit,” Sherlock pointed out.

Molly nodded, taking a moment to reach across him and grab a bowl of pretzels resting next to his scotch tumbler. She offered it to him first, and then pulled it into her lap when he shook his head. Resting her cheek against his arm, she returned her gaze to the picture. She explained around crunches of pretzel, “What tipped me off is that he’s got several charcoal briquettes scattered about him and some coal dust smeared on his fingers around his mouth. Poor sod must have heard that poison victims often are treated with charcoal. Too bad he didn’t hear that it’s used in hemoperfusion: a human Brita blood filter.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain a small snort of laughter at that. He soon sobered, looking down at the small woman whose face was still smashed against his arm. “Are you a doctor?”

““Just gradum— _graduated_ up to Core Training today,” she said, smiling goofily. “I’m a surgeon.”

 “And that’s why you’re out here tonight?  _Celebrating_?”

“Ooh, you’re a grumpy one. Yes, celebrating. I worked fucking hard to get here.”

“To this pub?”

She snickered. “Yes, it was an uphill battle all the way. First I got lost in trendy Fulham, and then I had to fight an army of artists in Chiswick. And yet, here I am.”

“Here you are,” he murmured, thinking. “And where will you be doing your Core Training, then?”

“I have offers from a few places. It’s nice to have my pick. Royal London and Barts are my top two choices.”

Barts… Sherlock rather liked Barts. Casually, he said, “The latter is the best teaching hospital in the UK.”

Nodding, Molly’s cheek rubbed against the fine material of his blazer. Sherlock should have been more appalled by her continued close contact, but she was disarmingly affable and had a keener eye than most of the buffoons at the Met. Paired with whatever fragrance she was wearing and it wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

“I’ve been told that,” she agreed, “but I’m interviewing at both to see which would be a better fit for me.”

Sherlock nearly sneered at that. “You can make yourself fit wherever you choose.”

“Sure, and risk alienating everyone and being miserable, having to drag myself in every day.” She shook her head. “No, I’m going to wait and see.”

Deciding that arguing his point would be a lost cause, Sherlock changed the subject. “What are you going to be doing in Core Training? More surgery?”

“Yup,” she said, popping the p. “Eventually, I’m going to go for a specialist registry, work as a consultant, but for now I’ll while my hours away in a morgue. No one else ever wants to do the post-mortems.” Suddenly, she frowned and tilted her head back so her chin was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I never asked your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced. “I’m a consultant as well.”

Her bleary eyes lit up excitedly. “Oh, in medicine?”

He shook his head. “No, in crime solving. That’s why I’m here tonight. Following a suspect.”

She grew only more excited at this. “Brilliant! So, what, the police hire you to provide input in difficult cases?”

No one had ever gotten that before. Sherlock perked up at her obvious delight, only remembering the air of ennui that he tried to exude at all times just before he embarrassed himself with immature eagerness. So, instead, he nodded with quiet dignity. “Indeed. I do handle some private cases as well, but I’m still building my clientele on that front.”

“It does take time,” Molly agreed, taking her chin from his shoulder and resting against his arm once more. “So who’s your suspect?”

“The man sitting at the bar watching the football game with the other meat heads. Though Scotland Yard disagrees, I believe he is responsible for three deaths by poisoning. I just can’t figure out how he’s picking his targets.”

“Bastard,” Molly whispered.

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

They sat there quietly for another half hour, the noise of the pub slowly lessening as patrons left in the late hour. Molly’s bowl of pretzels steadily decreased in supply, until she’d polished them all off.

She frowned sadly when her hand reached for another pretzel, only to find salt and crumbs. “Someone ate all of my pretzels.”

“You ate them,” Sherlock reminded her, but he couldn’t get manage a biting tone.

“Oh.” She squinted, as if trying to spot a memory. “I guess you’re right. Huh. Well, I’m sure they were delicious.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up in an unwilling smile as he scanned the dwindling crowd. His quarry was finishing off a pint of lager, casually chatting with the bartender. At first, Sherlock assumed that they were discussing the game, based on their gestures, but then the bartender glanced around, making sure no one was watching (somehow missing the pair sitting on the sofa), and then he wrote something on a cocktail napkin and slid it across the bar.

Nodding slightly, the second man pocketed the napkin, chugged down the last few gulps of his beer, and then stood up on unsteady legs. Over the low din, Sherlock could hear him say, “I’ll take care of it on Sunday.”

Molly had noticed this exchange too, because she was suddenly grabbing Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it in a surprisingly strong grip.

He nodded to show he’d seen, and thumbed on his mobile. He fired off a quick text message to Sergeant Lestrade, suggesting that he and his commanding lieutenant might like to pay a visit to the man sooner rather than later, since he’d apparently gotten his instructions for his next victim.

“I wonder what the bartender has on him,” Sherlock murmured.

Molly made a noncommittal noise. “Siblings can be alarmingly loyal.”

He turned to look at her sharply. “What? You know them?”

She shook her head, looking at him like he was crazy for the first time. “I rarely socialize with psychopaths. No, they both have the same hairline and hair color, ears, brachydactylic fingers and Hitchhiker’s thumbs. Heritable traits. Also, they tuck in their shirts into their jeans. They probably had a particular mother or they went to a school that required it even on casual days. I need to use the loo.”

Sherlock blinked at the sudden change of subject (and mild jealousy that she’d noticed something he’d so massively overlooked). He stayed quiet, watching as she pushed up from her seat, her fingers hitting a sensitive, ticklish spot on his inner thigh as she used it for leverage. Fortunately, she missed the small spasm in his leg. She ambled towards the back of the loo, swaying and smiling a little at the music playing on the pub’s PA. Sherlock watched her retreat, puzzling out several things at once, some pertaining to his case, and some very much not.

“Excuse me,” a voice asked to his left. Shaking off the weirdness of the last several minutes, he turned to find a young woman—twenty-nine, dog owner, transgender, guitarist, General Practitioner—smiling in greeting at him. “I’m Meena. Molly’s friend. I just wanted to check on her, since she’s been with you for an hour. Is she alright?”

He nodded. “She’s not too inebriated. She’s just gone to the lavatory.”

 Meena nodded. “Oh, okay. Is she going to be going home with you tonight?”

“What? No! We’re—no, I’m—“ He cleared his throat in an effort to sound, ideally, 100% less flustered. “No, her plans are unchanged. I believe she’ll be returning to your party soon.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Meena said cheerfully. And then she waved and moved back across the bar to her and Molly’s friends.

When Molly returned, she didn’t resume her seat. “I suppose I should actually pay attention to my friends.”

Sherlock nodded, clearing his throat yet again. “Your friend Minerva—“

“Meena,” Molly corrected.

“Yes, well, she asked after you and I believe she and your other friends are preparing to leave.”

“Oh! Okay. I should hurry then. It’s been quite fun, Mr. Holmes.” She stuck out a hand, trying to look serious, and failing, her dimples fluttering in her cheeks.

He couldn’t help his own, small smile as they shook. “Good luck, Doctor Hooper.”

She grinned. “I don’t get tired of hearing that. Well, ta!” She started to walk away, before stopping and hurrying back to Sherlock. She plucked his mobile out of his hand, and started typing something in while he watched wordlessly.

Shoving it back at him, she hurried away, a small blush staining her cheeks. He glanced down and confirmed that she’d indeed programmed her number into his phone.  He’d received a few numbers from women over the last ten years. This was the first time in a long while that he didn’t look on it with complete detachment.

Doctor Molly Hooper, soon to be of Royal London or Saint Bartholomew’s.  He idly thought about calling his brother and asking that Mycroft finagle her placement at Barts, but then he thought back on her saying that she wanted to have the right fit. He’d scoffed then, but now he thought about Molly going somewhere that might tamp down her cheerful intelligence, and it now seemed liked too great a sacrifice, even for Sherlock Holmes.

So he decided to wait it out and find out where she ended up. After all, the bodies at Royal London were probably no different than those at Barts.

What mattered was who was handling them.


	22. Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's Sally and Molly friendship fic. I also added in a dash of Sherlolly, Cakeolly (Molly + cake = OTP), and Sally/Other for good measure.
> 
> The story title is by Cyndi Lauper and Weird Al. Because I can ('t think of anything else to call it).

The sterile smell of hospital mixed unpleasantly with what  _could_  generously be described as food. Gentle clinking of cutlery and the rattling of carts hauling away dirty dishes didn’t do anything to distinguish the large room from any other in the world that served the same function.

Someone had half-heartedly fastened sad caricatures of autumn leaves to the plain, white walls. Far from making the place look festive, someone with poor eyesight might think that an infant had sicked up some of the Barts canteen fare with impressive results.

Sally Donovan was wondering if she needed to get her eyes checked, because she was not sure that they  _were_  leaves and not something less hygienic.

A throat clearing drew her attention away from the vomitorium’s walls, and she found Molly Hooper looking at her from the other side of their table, eyebrow quirked and a bite of chocolate cake halfway to her mouth.

“Sorry,” Sally hurried to say. “I got distracted. What was it?”

“I asked if you’d like to catch a film this weekend? Got anything on?”

Pulling out her phone, she studied her diary. “I have a CrossFit class that morning. Not that you’ll even be up and about that early, lazy arse.”

Wrinkling her nose at her fork, Molly whispered to it, “We won’t let her get us down, Cake. We’re fine just the way we are.”

Sally smirked, tucking the mobile back in its designated spot. “You’re great. That was a commentary on you not rolling out of your bed until at least half-ten.”

Chewing on the food that she’d so recently comforted, Molly took time to swallow before replying. “You wouldn’t be wrong. But I’d be willing to get up early if your idea of a fun morning didn’t involve sacrificing one’s self on the altar of extreme torture.”

“Extreme torture and extreme fitness are not the same thing,” Sally chided. “You’d probably like it if you gave it a try.”

“That _is_  tempting!” Molly’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Last time I was yelled at by a phys-ed instructor I nearly got expelled for suggesting that he might be more useful to my education as a corpse.”

“Strange, that. He didn’t like being told to die?”

Molly shook her head, an exasperated, affectionate smile on her face.  _Silly Sally_. Donovan had once threatened to put itching powder in Molly’s knickers if she ever repeated her mum's nickname for her, but Sally could tell when her friend was thinking it.

“I didn’t tell him to die, you funny thing. Not at all. I just wanted him to know that he likely wouldn’t have a lasting impact on my future if he didn’t donate his body to science when he  _did_  die. I even offered to pre-fill the forms for him.”

Laughing, Sally began breaking a biscuit from her own plate into smaller pieces. “Anyway, my instructor isn’t a monster. She has a Masters in Kinesiology and she knows how to drive us without overtaxing us. You really  _could_  come with me.”

“You know me and exercise.”

“It’d be fun to have you along, though.”

Molly grinned again. “Now you’re just being nice. I’d be the person crawling along behind the running group, asking if anyone else smelled burning feathers.”

Sally almost objected before realizing that it was a real possibility. “Fine. But you won’t change my mind about what it does for me.”

“You know what else isn’t overtaxing but is a rather good workout?” Molly asked casually. Too casually.

“What?” Sally already suspecting where this was going, but deciding to play along.

“It’s a bit of cardio and muscle toning together. A lot of repetitive motions. If it’s a good session, you do get fatigued, but, oh, the results are worth it.”

Popping a bite of biscuit into her mouth, Sally leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms and legs, smiling. “And you’re doing this regularly, eh?”

Molly nodded, a lascivious grin curving her mouth. “Absolutely. It’s a new regimen. Night and day. I love the burn of it, the stiff muscles becoming fluid, the way I feel when I’m finished.”

Straightening and leaning forward once more, Sally squinted at her friend (again, an eye exam wouldn’t go amiss). “You’re serious.”

“As a subdural hematoma.”

“You didn’t tell me you…. Not since… When?”

“Since my Auntie Eunice gave me that Shake Weight for my birthday.”

A pause.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sally hissed, glaring at her half-eaten cookie in disgust while Molly snickered and high-fived herself.

“I’m sure I’m nearly as strong as you, now,” Molly added jokingly. “Never underestimate the toning power of the kilo dumbbell. We should arm-wrestle.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Sally daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin. “What film would you like to see on Saturday?”

“I’m not picky. Maybe something that I don’t have a prayer of watching with The Grump.”

“Your cat?”

“Toby is a bit picky about his action films, too. But I’m talking about my recent partner in my other favorite form of exercise.”

“Which is?”

“Shagging.”  Grinning while Sally looked up sharply, Molly glanced towards the canteen door. “Speak of the devil. Here’s my ride. Text me with a show time, yeah?”

She hurried around the table and bussed Sally’s cheek before dropping her tray on a nearby cart and moving towards the doorway.

Looming there like a great, overgrown vulture stood Sherlock Holmes. He was busy typing rapidly on his mobile, but Sally couldn’t help but notice his eyes darting up several times to watch Molly’s approach. And the small, _happy_  smile that kept flickering on his lips.

Before she reached him, Molly spun around and called back across the room. “Aggie from Admissions is still single,” she said helpfully. “She asks after you.”

“Shut up. I don’t need to shag someone to get exercise,” Sally yelled back before several admonishing hushes reminded her just where she was. Waving at them, in apology, Sally continued to stare, still whiplashed from the shock of it all as Molly cackled and turned back, finally reaching Sherlock.

She murmured something that had him grinning.  _Grinning_. And not in a locked-room-quadruple-homicide sort of way. Molly said something else and he shrugged, nudging her gently with his hip and stroking a hand down her ponytail as she passed him.  Just before he moved out of Sally’s line of sight, Sherlock stopped and looked back into the canteen. Their eyes met, hers narrowed, and his responded in kind.

It only lasted for two seconds before he abruptly relaxed his features and his lips tilted the barest amount. Then, with a slight wave/salute to her, he was gone.

Deciding the worry could set in later—both for Sherlock’s disturbing about-face and, more importantly, Molly’s heart—Sally finished her last bite of biscuit and set all of her flatware on her plate. As she made to move out her chair, her mobile chimed. And then a second and third time as she fished it out of her bag.

_You only burn 70cal having sex. A few rounds can certainly make up for, say, a piece of cake. But it’d be a sad day for me, the poor cake, and Sherlock if that was my motivation.  x M_

_If you’d like to use it as an excuse and stop with the CrossDrawing-and-Quartering, though, take it and run. There’s just something to be said for the non-exercise stuff too. x M_

And finally:

_Aggie: 077 5445 3121 x M_

Beyond Molly Hooper’s anthropomorphizing desserts and insulting her workout routine, Sally actually considered her words. Not necessarily Aggie from Admissions. She was nice and might have otherwise been a fun date.

But Sally actually had someone else in mind.  Had done for some time now, but for something scarier than a casual fling.

Thumbing through her contacts, she read the name, building up the nerve. With a firm nod, she dialed the number as she made her way out of Barts. While she waited for a taxi, she listened to the ringing in her ear, patiently expecting an answer.

When a warm voice sounded on the other end of the line, Sally smiled. 


	23. Lost In the Silence Until I Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an AU Prompt Meme on Tumblr, Anonymous requested a Divorce AU.

He didn’t need to see the intruder to know who it was. They were  _her_  rustles and footsteps. The hooking of fingers over hinged drawer handles and the scraping of wood as she opened them were sounds he’d grown accustomed to long ago. The quick hiss of a suitcase zipper being pulled had a hesitation to it, but it was still the one with which he’d made himself familiar.

 The exhalation was her sigh. He’d know the pitch of it anywhere. The timbre and the length of it.

He had all of her sighs catalogued, had heard all of them enough to have them filed away, every bit as important as his knowledge of ash and fibers. But he didn’t need to sift through that catalog. No need to move around the sighs she made in frustration when she found their bathtub full of ice and animal bones, nor the sighs she made in passion as she lay beneath him in their bed, and not the sighs she made when he did something to annoy and amuse her.

No, he didn’t need any  ~~memories~~  data for comparison. There was nothing to rule out. This was the sigh she only emitted when she was at her unhappiest, the shake to it at the end when she was saddest.

The coward in him wanted to turn around and go back the way he’d come. He’d long since stopped slamming through every door he encountered (she’d not asked him to, he’d just become more mindful of it. See: Molly Hooper’s Annoyed-And-Amused Sigh).  She need never know he’d found her there.

He turned and stared at the doorway, a sigh similar to the one he’d just heard coming from  ~~their~~  his bedroom shaking loose from his lips.

Oh, how he wanted to run.

Oh, how he wanted to go into that bedroom.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking there was anything good in her being there after a month away. If he had ever been an optimist, perhaps the ache in his chest would have kicked a little, trying to ameliorate itself with hope. But Sherlock Holmes knew better. He took a fleeing step through the doorjamb, not feeling brave or strong enough to face her.

And then the ache twinged, not with hope, but with despair. Before he could remind himself that this certainly wasn't a way to soothe the pain, he found himself walking down the dark hallway towards the lamp glow coming through the crack under the door.

It was like a lighthouse’s beacon, warning him of sharp rocks ahead. Guiding him home.

The door creaked open with a push from his hand. She’d meant to oil its hinges, had told him so two days before she’d left.  He’d hardly noticed it until she was back under his roof, as if reminding him and scolding him in concert with her presence.

Right before she reacted to that creaking herald of his arrival, she’d been standing at her sprawled-open suitcase on their bed, head bowed as she stared at something her hands. She looked up sharply when she registered his presence, though she didn’t move away from the bed or try to hide what she’d been poring over.

It was a picture frame, holding their wedding photograph, if anyone would call it that.

Sherlock would and did.

They’d not had a fancy ceremony. No tulle concoction for her, no morning jacket for him. Just a pretty dress she’d always owned and one of his requisite suits.  No cleric or readers or organist, just a Register’s Office on a Tuesday morning.  Their handful of friends and (grudgingly for Sherlock) his parents had witnessed it, smiles as excited as the bride and groom’s.  John had snapped the picture with his mobile, sending it to everyone with a comment about their honeymoon likely being to some university’s forensic body farm.

Even Sherlock had laughed as he saved the picture, setting a reminder to have it printed.

He’d not even needed that reminder, having taken care of it the very next day and then fitting it into a delicate frame his mother had given them.

It had stayed on his bedside table, through the excitement and into the comfort of a happy life. And into the time when things became so hard. It had stayed there up to now, when she’d lifted it from its spot and stood staring at it, tears dripping down her cheeks.

She didn’t look surprised to find him there, nor did she try to dash away the streaks on her face that stood out in such sharp contrast in the lamplight.

Slowly, feeling so very old, Sherlock moved further into the room. He sank onto the bed, hip pressed against that hated suitcase.

She looked at him, fresh tears spilling over, and he felt his own burning and escaping while she hugged the frame to her.

Without realizing he was doing it, he reached forward and put his hands on her hips, touching her for the first time in too long. He pulled her over so she stood in front of him, between his legs.

Leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her and holding her almost painfully, he pressed his face against her belly, smelling the washing powder that she’d always used as it became more distinct with the heated dampness on his face.

Not hesitating, she set the picture back on the table and wove the fingers of one hand through his hair, the others brushing down and across, curling and clutching under his arm.

They stood there for so long, their shaking breaths a cacophony in a room that had once played host to whispers and laughs and moans and love.

The near silence was only broken when he finally gathered the nerve to whisper, “Don’t.” He nuzzled against her stomach and said again, “Don’t. Please, don’t.”


	24. Catfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested a "Meeting while dropping kids off at school" AU. This doesn't really qualify.

The first time Molly Hooper sees Sherlock, his face is strangely distended behind a fish bowl held aloft in his hands. The rounded glass his nose bulbous and stretching out his mouth and eyes comically. In spite of the distortion, she can tell he is scowling as he peers through the glass.

At first, all she can see is a pile of turquoise gravel and a fake plant, and she feels a strike of pity as she worries this poor man is missing his fish. But just as she is about to broach the subject, out of the rock pile at the bottom pops a betta that just happens to match the exact hue of the gravel. The man clearly had similar thoughts as Molly, for he huffs in annoyance and mutters something too low for her to hear, still glaring at it.

* * *

The first time Sherlock Holmes sees Molly, he is busy verbally abusing a fish.

When the fish fails to look remotely chagrinned and instead swims to the far side, he catches sight of her through the watery kaleidoscope of the dratted fishbowl. Her many-colored explosion of a jumper compliments the aquarium gravel quite well, to be honest. Beyond that, he can’t tell much else, other than the fact that she is shamelessly staring at him.

Keeping his scowl firmly in place, he lowers the bowl to suggest that she take a picture if he’s so fascinating. But first, he scans her to take some quick deductions, lest he need to further quell her with a cutting remark about her bathroom habits. Unfortunately, she’s harder to read than that.

She is clutching a wriggling cat in her arms. The orange tabby is yowling and pawing at her. It tries to straighten in her arms and slide through her grasp (a tactic he’s also seen effectively employed by toddlers), but she is too cagey for it and only adjusts her grip. To this, the cat actually moans, its tail lashing against her.

To say the woman is unfazed by the struggles of her pet is an understatement. The moment Sherlock lowers the bowl, she beams at him.

“He’s okay!”

“I think he would disagree,” he replies, his lip curling.

She looks back at him quizzically for a moment before following the direction of his gaze, fixed on what he can only describe as a bizarre, feline breed of a mix between a Pomeranian and a pony. It looks to weigh nearly as much as she does and its orange fur is an explosion of microfiberous fluff.

When she realizes that he’s talking about her cat, she grins again, good-naturedly. “He’d tell you I’m murdering him. But I was talking about your fish.”

“I rarely converse with felines. I find they’re unreliable witnesses.” Good lord, is he  _bantering_ with this stranger?

Her laugh confirms that yes, appallingly, he is.

Deciding to veer away quickly, he glares once again at the not-so-precious cargo in his own hands. “She keeps doing this. I’ll think she’s sprung loose from her prison, only for it to turn out that she’s just a moron.”

“Have you ever seen the brain stem of a fish?” the woman asks, shuffling a bit closer to him as she flips the cat over in her arms so he’s cradled like a baby. Sherlock doubts he’s ever seen so much umbrage in a non-human before.

But then her question registers, and he finds himself goggling at her, instead. It is one of the most off-kilter questions he’s ever been asked. The answer is, of course, yes, but the fact that  _she’d_  ask it in casual conversation is one of the more fascinating things Sherlock has encountered today, or even this week.

This trip to the Elmtree Pet Hotel is less tedious than he’d anticipated.

Instead of hastening to start discussing fish anatomy, he squints at this strange, fascinating woman. “Do you often ask strangers if they’ve seen the brain stems of fish?”

She carefuly lowers herself into the chair next to his. “Only when fish intelligence is the subject at hand,” she replies archly, and he has to admit that she has him there. “Well?” she presses. “Have you?”

“Yes,” he concedes.

She nods. “Then you’ll know that there’s not a lot going on in their heads. So yes, your fish is probably a moron, from an entirely anthropocentric standpoint. But I’m sure he has a great personality. For a fish.”

Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s grinning back at her until it’s too late to stop it.  _Keep going like this, and she’ll think you fancy her,_ he tells himself.  Clearing his throat, he nods soberly and looks back down to see his fish burying herself once more in the gravel.

He rolls his eyes and glances around the lobby of the pet hotel. Still no receptionist, so he turns once more to the woman. “You’re going on holiday?” he asks with feigned casualness.

She nods, looking rueful for the first time since their meeting. “To see an aunt in Blackpool. I’d bring Toby”—here, she jostles her armful of fluff—“but she has this odious, ancient dog that bites and I can just see Toby getting into it with the dog. It’d have a heart attack and die. No great loss, but Auntie Eunice would blame me. What about you? It must be a long trip you have planned if you’re paying to board a fish.”

Looking around, Sherlock thinks hard about what he can reveal and what he can’t. But these few, short minutes with this woman are the most interesting he’s had in a long while. And though he would never admit aloud, he’s bafflingly charmed by her. 

So he lets this nebulous bonhomie direct him. “Find some other boarding arrangement,” he murmurs.

She frowns. “What?”

“I’m a consulting detective. I’ve been hired by someone to find out why pets keep disappearing from here.”

The woman gasps and clutches her cat closer to her chest. He had nodded off, but cracks an annoyed eye open when she hugs him tighter.  “And you’re posing as a pet owner to infiltrate it? So whose fish is this?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. “Mine.” He can feel heat creeping up in his neck.

“And you’re using him as bait?”

He nearly deflects with a joke about fishes and bait, but instead he just nods miserably. “I wasn’t going to leave her,” he hastens to add, as if the woman might condemn him for it. “I just needed to see the place.”

She pats his arm comfortingly, and he scowls yet again with the realization that it actually  _is_  comforting.  “I wasn’t admonishing you. I was just worrying that you’d bought a fish just for your case and then would have to find a home for it after it concluded.”

He sniffs, trying to look dignified. “Minerva Louise is five years old. She is an excellent listener.”

“She?” the woman asks.

“What?”

“Your fish,” she explains, pointing. “It’s biologically a male.  Female bettas don’t have the mane-and-tail thing going on.”

Frowning, Sherlock lifts the bowl to peer inside once more.

“But if Minerva Louise identifies as a female, then that’s what she is,” she adds hastily.

Sherlock looks at the woman out of the corner of his eye for moment, weighing her words, before he turns back to the bowl once more. Minerva Louise shucks the rocks she’d so recently burrowed into and swims over to eye him in return.

“She hasn’t told me,” he ponders.

“Well then, I say leave her be. She’ll correct you if you’re wrong.”

“Yes, because fish are so verbose,” he says, worrying that he’s offended Minerva Louise.

The woman just pats his hand and then gasps as her cat suddenly wriggles around in her arms and sticks his furry snout in Sherlock’s fish’s water.

“Toby!” she cries, trying to pull the beast away without taking the bowl with him.  “No!”

But then she and Sherlock both pause, watching in horrified amazement as the cat just starts lapping at the water. He glances in at Minerva Louise momentarily and pokes a paw at the bowl’s side before resuming his drinking.

The fish, meanwhile, merrily flutters under the cat’s mouth, nipping at his furry chin.

Swallowing at what might be the strangest close call he’s ever had, Sherlock eyes the fur ball in the woman’s arms. “Toby isn’t much of a hunter, is he?”

She looks down at the animal, frowning. “He’s pretty much the worst cat ever to… well, cat.”

Without thinking what he’s doing, Sherlock says, “I can watch him.”

“What?”

“While you’re on holiday. If you’d like, I can watch your cat.”

She blinks at him, a goofy smile spreading across her face, as if he had just written her a sonnet. “Why would you do that?” she asks bashfully.

Sherlock feels a traitorous blush creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. “I told you. This ‘pet hotel’—stupidest description, by the way—is probably sending people’s furry companions to be made into coats or something of the like. Your cat will be far safer with me. He’s proven not to be a threat to my fish. Why don’t you give me an hour to wrap this up and then you can bring him by my flat.”

The woman strokes her pet, looking at him. “It’s all so sudden,” she murmurs.

“It’s only sudden in the eyes of a society that believes people don’t have their minds made up about such things very quickly after first impressions are done away with.”

She nods at this, considering.

“So?” he asks, all the while wondering why he’s pushing this so much and why the entire conversation is now sounding like the world’s most bizarre marriage proposal.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says weakly, though she’s already pulling out her phone. “But you’re right. Sometimes you just know. What’s your address?

He nods. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

Just then, the receptionist stumbles back into the room. She squints at a clipboard and calls out in a nasally voice, “Molly Hooper?”

The woman— _Molly—_ meets Sherlock’s eyes one last time, gives a firm nod and then says loudly and stiffly, “I just realized, I left my shoes in… in the oven.” And then she stands, clips a leash onto her cat’s harness, and hurries to the door. She only stops to peer back at Sherlock fleetingly.

He gives her a wink. “Afternoon,” he says, as if they are strangers in passing.  Once the door closes behind her, he turns and shoots a calculating smile at the receptionist. 

Fur stuck in the clasp of her bracelet. An expensive bracelet. Like something you might be able to afford after fencing valuable, purebred pets.

Oh yes, he thinks, this will be an easy one to solve, getting him home that much more quickly. For once, he isn’t bothered by the low level of effort he’s had to put into a case. After all, Molly Hooper is going to be coming by in an hour. It’s only polite that he have tea ready for when she arrives.

He glances down at Minerva Louise and decides the bubble she just blew means she agrees wholeheartedly.


	25. When the Morning Chimes Ring Sweet Again

“This is reckless and stupid. I’m surprised by you.”

Molly Hooper looked up from her patient in momentary alarm at the sudden burst of noise. She only spared a glance for the man who’d just bashed his way into the room before returning her gaze to the child whose sprained arm she was finishing wrapping.  Smiling reassuringly at the scared little girl, Molly murmured, “Sherlock. Can this wait?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock Holmes shaking his head vehemently. “No.”

Stroking her hand over the child’s hair, Molly promised to return to check on her before she turned, gripping Sherlock’s wrist and tugging him out of the hospital room. He followed without comment, not trying to pull away as she led him down the hall, though she could feel him vibrating with barely suppressed rage.  Once she’d ensconced them in an empty room and the sounds shell-shocked activity were muffled to a din by the closed door, Molly allowed herself to look at Sherlock, anger now coloring her own cheeks.

“What is the matter? Why are you here?”  She knew, but she’d lost all patience and refused to kowtow to him. Especially now, when the stakes were so high.

“I’m here because  _you’re_  here. You may have missed it, Molly, but there’s a bit of a dust-up going on outside.” His tone was saccharine, his expression biting. He was in a dangerous mood.

Then again, so was she.

“Oh, I had no idea,” Molly replied in kind. “What’s the problem? Some disagreement over a horse race?” He opened his mouth to snipe a response, but she cut him off. “Or is it the warplanes currently shelling the city?”

“Don’t play the fool, Molly,” he growled. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Well now I’m really confused. You greeted me just five minutes ago with your opinion of my rationale and intelligence. ‘Reckless and stupid,’ were the words you used, I believe.”

His voice rose with each word he gritted out. “I said what you’re  _doing_  is reckless and stupid. Not you. And that’s why I’m so damned angry with you right now.”

She laughed without a trace of humor. “What else would I be doing, Sherlock? Baking pies? Knitting for the war effort?”

“No!” he shouted, fully losing his tenuous grip on his temper. “You’d be in the government-owned shelter where I instructed you to go last week. You wouldn’t be running around with the delusional idea that some anti-splinter blinds pulled across windows will keep you safe.”

“Instructed me to go?” she sputtered. “Sherlock, need I remind you, you don’t have any say in what I do or don’t do.”

“You think so?” he asked quietly, an icy façade in place.

Molly refused to back down. She’d done it too many times, but she couldn’t now. She  _wouldn’t_.  “I know so. You’re neither my father nor my husband, so I’m not sure why you’ve assumed this dictatorial farce will get you anywhere.”

“And if I were?”

“If you were my father? Then you’d be seven years dead.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t be cute.”

She shook her head. “The point is moot. But if you were?” She started walking towards him, beyond angry, and Sherlock seemed to tap into some desire for self-preservation, for he backed up with each of her approaching steps. “Even if we were married, even if we had two children and lapdog, or if I were bedridden and unable to walk, you still couldn’t tell me what to do.  I am my own person who makes her own decisions. No man, husband, father, brother, or overbearing clod could make me do something I didn’t want to do.”

Sherlock’s back hit the wall behind him and she bumped into him, not realizing how far across the room they’d moved. They glared at each other, breathing heavily.

He ducked his head, his furious breath brushing across her lips and some of his curls brushing her forehead. Molly froze, her own breath shuttering. Thinking that he might be about to… perhaps…..

Biting off a curse, he straightened just as abruptly and he turned his head away. He scanned the room, but clearly not seeing it, before sighing and once again meeting her eyes, calm renewed though his brow remained deeply furrowed. 

He licked his lips.“What if I  _ask_  you?”

“It’s like you’re incapable of listening to me,” she moaned, fists clenching on her apron’s hem.

He shook his head, still taxed for patience. “I’ve listened to you. I don’t pretend to understand why, but you want to be here. I am _asking_ you to reconsider.”

“And I am going to tell you again that I won’t leave. They need my help here, Sherlock.”

His mask fell away and he now was so young, so terrified. “They could get help from someone else.”

“It’s not that simple and you know it. Why does it even matter to you?” She slumped and started fiddling with the apron ties at her stomach, all at once more tired than she’d ever been before.

His hand reached forward and covered hers, stilling them.

“Why would you even ask me that?” he whispered.

Wanting to weep, she shook her head. “That was unkind of me,” she conceded. “I know I’m your friend. As you’re one of my dearest.  And I know why you’re worried. I truly do. But I have to stay.”

He nodded, still staring at their hands, his thumb brushing around and over her fingers.

It still didn’t sit right with Molly. “Sherlock?”

He gave a slight a  _hmm_  of acknowledgment.

“You didn’t do this to John. You didn’t stop him from reenlisting. Sure, you tried to situate him in a penthouse in Athens and argued when he refused, but you accepted his deployment without a fight.  How is this any diff—“

His hands no longer caressed hers. Now, they were cupping her head and he was kissing her heatedly. It was like they’d been in the calm eye of storm and were now back in the tempest.

His mouth worked hers open and he worried her bottom lip with small nips, broken up with soothing strokes of the tip of his tongue. She gave an involuntary whimper as she met him with each kiss. Her hands stroked up and around his torso, anchoring herself as firmly as she could with handfuls of his coat at his shoulder blades.

The room spun. With an arm tight around her waist, Sherlock had wheeled them around, pressing her back against the wall where he’d previously stood. He braced his free hand on the wall next to her head as he continued to take more and more from her lips. He pressed fully against her, robbing her of the ability to pull in any semblance of breath. Not that she could possibly care.

She only pulled him tighter to her.

And then he diminished. He moved his hand back from the wall to gently stroke her cheek as the fervor of their kisses gentled. Pulling back from her enough that she could breathe comfortably, his lips clung to hers until the last possible second. His arms didn’t fall away from her, though, and he only lowered his brow to hers.

She didn’t want to break this spell, but she knew the necessity of it. She slid her hand away from his hair. The stubble of his face rasped against her palm as he turned his head to place a soft kiss to it before she moved her hand to his neck, feeling the pounding pulse there.

“Please,” she begged, “please, tell me you didn’t do that to change my mind.”

He shook his head furiously, his expression so soft, his eyes so sad as he struggled. “It wasn’t. I couldn’t have—not with you, Molly. Never with you.”

She nodded, tears threatening once more as she shakily kissed his perfect lips again.

The distant sirens heralding incoming planes echoed in the black night outside of the hospital, and Sherlock’s arm convulsed around her for barest fraction of a second. But then he cleared his throat and stepped back.

“If shells drop anywhere near here, please encourage the staff to move everyone towards the interior of the building. I wasn’t joking when I said those anti-splinter blinds are nearly useless.”

“Where are you going?” she ask, far more afraid than she’d been since the bombs began falling a week earlier.

“Mycroft has requested that I fetch something of a delicate nature from a house in Kensington. I’m on my way there.”

She sank her head forward, resting it against his chest. “Please be careful. If you hear any planes approaching, follow your own advice. Please?”

She felt more than saw him nod. He kissed her hair and murmured into it, “You’ve noticed that the planes are mainly coming at nightfall. Too sure we’ll shoot them down, otherwise. Don’t leave here until daybreak.  Go straight home and I will come and find you in the morning.”

“Says the man about to go darting through the streets at night,” she shot back, but it was without fire.

“I’m a hypocrite,” he said blandly, without apology.

Molly began tucking her hair back, trying to neaten what she was sure was a mussed disaster.  “We’ve known that for a while. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“Nor do any of your promises.”

“Then what about my promise that I will be overjoyed to see you when you come barreling through my door in the morning?”

He smiled and ducked his head, still looking boyish but now in a bashful way. “I do like that promise. And I promise that when I do get back to you in the morning, I will be nothing but grateful and relieved that you’re safe and whole and so very brave, and—and with  _me._ ” He almost sounded like he couldn’t believe that reality.

She sniffled and grabbed his face and laid one last, fierce kiss on his mouth. “Go, before I start singing about ‘Old, Familiar Places’. You hate it when I do that.”

He grinned down at her. “I’ll go, but I should confess something.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t actually hate it when you sing it. You’re voice is terrible and off-key, but I'll admit… I rather like it.”

Rolling her eyes, Molly pushed him away.  He chuckled as he reached the door. But then his smile dropped as he looked at her once more.  He turned back to stare his hand on the doorknob. Quietly, almost too quietly, he sang, “I’ll be seeing you.”

And then he was gone and Molly was left alone in the dark room with the sounds of sirens, distant booms, and an aching fear. Clearing her throat, she swallowed her terror and pulled the door open with none of the hesitance she could have easily accepted. Moving down the hall, Molly spotted a woman hobbling in, supporting a bloodied man. Breaking into a run, she started calling for assistance and shouting instructions.  There was work to be done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested a War AU.
> 
> If you’re interested, here’s a really great BBC Radio recording from 1939. In it, several doctors and nurses detail the war preparations London hospitals made about a year before the Blitzkrieg began. One segment is narrated by a surgeon from Barts, who discusses the outpatient facilities the hospital prepared for triage and emergency treatment. This is where I’ve set this fic. 
> 
> The song Molly and Sherlock mention (and from which the story’s title comes) is “I’ll Be Seeing You”, which was written in 1938, and was massively popular during World War II.


	26. Demands

On the settee, Sherlock sat stiffly, eyes forward. She was about to ask if him he’d like some tea when he swiveled to face her.

“Are you going to do it or not?”

“Going to do what?”

“Kiss me.” He said the words like she shouldn’t have needed to ask. Slightly sarcastic with a brief roll of his eyes and an impatient jerk of his head.

And really, it was obvious. He’d been acting strangely since Mary had told them to stop bickering and kiss already. He had shut up and stared at Molly for several moments before leaving without a word. She’d not been hurt. Quite the opposite, in fact.

It had made her hopeful. And now here he was.

The mantle clock’s tick was the only sound in her lounge. She would later be astounded by how calm she felt about the entire matter.

“Well?” he demanded.

Clearing her throat, she smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her nightshirt and frowned at the chipped polish on her big toe. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And are you going to kiss me back?” she pressed.

Sardonically, he glared at her. “Obviously.”

“Well then.” She moved over to him; slithered onto him. “I suppose we’d best get on with it.”

He gripped her hips and waited for her.


	27. The Nefarious Molly Hooper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the AU Prompt Meme thingy, chamelion-cp requested a "Meeting in a Support Group" AU. I had written a more intense story, Wellspring, so I did this, instead.

“I think you know why I’ve called you here today,” Sherlock said somberly to the five people gathered in his lounge.

John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg all looked around at each other, identically confused expressions on their faces.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft made to stand, “I, of course, do know, and I can't help.”

“Sit down, Mycroft. Denial doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock snapped.

“Denial about  _what?_ ” asked Mrs. Hudson. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Mycroft murmured, “You poor fools,” though he resettled in his chair.

“His denial regarding the campaign of warfare being wrought by Molly Hooper,” Sherlock intoned ominously, ignoring his brother.

“And there it is,” Mycroft sighed, pulling out his mobile and scanning his email.

Mary shook her head. “Campaign of—what are you on about?”  Everyone else nodded in shared confusion.

“Oh, please, don’t be shy with me,” Sherlock cajoled. “You’ve all felt it.”

“Felt what, mate?” Lestrade asked.

“The discombobulation around her. The ringing ears, the shortness of breath, the palpitating heart, the muddled speech and the swollen tongue?!” When no one showed recognition, he threw his hands up. “She’s poisoning us with some sort of neurotoxin! I can’t believe you don’t see—”

“None of us has felt anything like that,” Mary interrupted. When Sherlock started to object, she continued, speaking loudly over him, “The symptoms you’re describing, Sherlock, they only happen when you’re around Molly?”

He glowered. “Yes. At first, I thought I was coming down with the flu. But it’s happened several times since then. I’ve managed not to reveal that I know. I believe she’ll dig herself a trap, but I don’t pretend that I can apprehend her without the support of the rest of you who’ve also been betrayed by her. This is one that I can’t handle objectively.”

Everyone glanced around at each other, awkwardly squirming in their seats. Mycroft chuckled nastily, still looking at this mobile.

“I know it’s unpleasant. Believe me, I was just as hurt as you when I realized, but we have to move forward. Now, John, I am going to need you to waylay Molly when she leaves work—”

John had been scrubbing his face with his hands, but he held up a quelling finger when Sherlock began mapping out his plan. “Sherlock, why would the very first conclusion you jump to be that Molly Hooper— _Molly Hooper,_  for god’s sake—is trying to kill you?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Because, as your wife already established, it only happens in her company. I’d think it was someone else on the Barts staff, were it not for the fact that all but one of the incidents happened when I was availing myself of her flat.”

Lestrade coughed, though it sounded like an ill-disguised laugh. “So let me get this straight. You feel dizzy and can’t speak well, your heart speeds up, and your ' _tongue',_ ” he mimed quotation marks at the word, “swells up when you happen to be looking at Molly and—don’t bother denying it—sharing a bed with her?”

“Her bed is far more comfortable than her settee,” Sherlock muttered, before saying in a more normal volume, “Yes. That is what I’m saying.”

“Out of curiosity, Sherlock,” Mycroft chimed in, tucking his phone into his breast pocket, “did you have similar feelings around Irene Adler?”

“Irene Adler? What has she got to do with—Oh! Oh….” Sherlock pieced things together. “The Woman  _did_ drug me once,” he said somewhat sullenly.

“Yes, but not before your tongue swelled,” John reminded him.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock ordered, but it was without fire, and his scowl was soon replaced with a small smile.  “Molly Hooper,” he whispered.

“Well, this has been a great use of my time, but I really must dash,” Mycroft smiled thinly, rising once more.

“Yes, all of you go with him,” Sherlock instructed, standing up and hurrying through his kitchen.

“Well, that’s rude,” Mrs. Hudson said, affronted.

“If you’re going to Barts, Sherlock, there’s really no need,” Mycroft called to the back of the flat.

“Why ever not?” Sherlock’s muffled voice demanded.

“Because I’ve already summoned—”

“Hello, everyone! Mycroft, you wanted to see me?” Molly Hooper asked from the doorway.

Her confusion at everyone’s rather barmy grins only increased as, one by one, they filed past her, a few pecking her on the cheek as they went.

“Where are you all going? What’s happ—“

“Hello, Molly,” Sherlock said from behind her. He looked so serious. Too serious. “I think you know why Mycroft called you here today.”

Her face awash with confusion, Molly shook her head. “N—no, I don’t, actually.”

Deflating, Sherlock sighed. “Oh, for god’s sake.” And then he took the remaining two steps to her and yanked her to him. “I guess I’ll have to explain it better.”

And so he did, with swollen tongue and all.


	28. That Old Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fangirlwithyournumber requested a "Meeting at a Reunion" AU for the AU Prompt Meme on Tumblr.

She had refused to believe it until this moment. But now there’s irrefutable proof. Sherlock Holmes has come to their year group’s fifteen-year reunion.

Molly Hooper’s first instinct is to panic and run. She’s fairly good at that, after all. But that will accomplish nothing and, with her luck, she’ll probably trip and fall, drawing even more attention to herself.

Instead, she nods to herself and moves over to where he stands, back pressed against the wall.

He straightens a little when he sees her approaching,but comes back to himself and huffs out a breath of air and slouches once more. He returns to his scan of the hotel banquet room.

“You have a Facebook account,” she says in greeting, before cringing.  _Sure Molly_ , she thinks _, that’s a killer opener._

“It has its uses,” he says, his eyes darting. “Keeps me abreast of everyone’s failures.”

She snickers at his cynicism, more at ease with his unchanged personality _._  “How are you doing, Sherlock?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“How is Kitty doing?”

 “She’s fine,” he says, frowning. He turns finally so he’s facing her fully.

“Is she here?” Molly asks. She’d not spoken to Kitty Winters in quite some time, but she’d always liked her. Which had only made everything harder.  

“No, with two children underfoot, she’s not going to be coming to any of the planned events.”

Molly feels a small burst of genuine happiness, even if there is also a pang of sadness for opportunities lost. “Two? How old?”

“Four and… one?”

He sounds quite uncertain, but then, he is Sherlock. She presses on, “What are their names?”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Calliope and Ignatius.”

Trying to appear impressed, she makes a noise that could be considered pleased. “Wow, those are… those are something, alright.”

Sherlock sneers, though that could be because the DJ has put on a song from their graduating year. “I told her they were horrendous names, begging mockery, and she told me to shove it.”

Molly can’t help her laugh. “She didn’t give you any say?”

“No,” he laments. “Something about how she and her wife were perfectly fine choosing the names of their children and that I needed to keep my great nose out of it.”

Shaking her head, Molly thinks she’s misheard. “Kitty’s wife?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it were obvious. “Sally Donovan.”

“You’re not married to Kitty?” She knows it’s a stupid question even as she asks it, but she still waits for his answer as if she’d asked for the resolution to a life-or-death question.

“What?” he blinks in shock before calming himself. “Kitty and I were fond, but… no.  We parted ways more than thirteen years ago. I met Sally through my work. We had a rather uneasy relationship, but due to possible brain damage, I gave her Kitty’s phone number. They ‘hit it off’”—he scowls at the term—“and were registered Civil Partners less than a year later. They married officially this last March. They keep  _thanking_  me.” He shudders at something so unsightly as gratitude.  “Made me Calliope’s godfather, for some, inane reason.”

Laughing again, Molly asks, “You’re a godfather? How do you find that?”

He shrugs, though he looks a little proud. “Could be worse. She’s quite bright and asks good questions when I take her to the Chelsea Physic Garden or the zoo.”

Molly beams. “That wonderful. And I’m glad to hear Kitty is doing well. Do send my love.”

He agrees, but he’s now really looking at her, so seriously. “You look… well, Molly.”

She nods “I am.”

“How’s T—Tom?”

She manages not to snort at his willful ignorance . “I wouldn’t know,” she answers honestly. “I’ve not seen him since I broke up with him the second week of my first term at Uni.”

“What a pity,” he says without any trace of remorse. “And have you… moved on?”

She’s not sure if he’s asking if she’s moved on from Tom or from…. Well. “There wasn’t any moving on from Tom necessary. We hardly dated.”

“And now?” he asks cautiously.

“Now, I’m standing at a horrible reunion arranged on Facebook by a classmate we didn’t even like, talking to you.”

He blindly reaches forward and takes the tumbler of whiskey on the rocks that she’s been grasping. Bringing it to his lips, he knocks the rest of it back before setting the empty glass on a passing tray (carried by another classmate, who’d only been fetching drinks for his table of friends).  They ignore the man’s angry squawk as they stare at each other.

“I saw that you’d accepted the invitation,” Sherlock says in a rush. “That’s why I came.”

“I thought it was Sebastian Wilkes. I thought he’d made a fake account for you. But when I saw your name on the list of invitees, I wanted….”

He nods, in perfect accord.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Molly asks, still nervous as she holds out a hand. “Would you like to leave this hell hole?”

“God, yes." He grasps her fingers and lets her lead him away.


	29. Ninja Training

She had waited until he availed himself of her shower.

When he emerged from the steamy bathroom, clad only in a towel, she was there by the door, waiting. Before he could ask what she was doing, she'd shoved him against the wall opposite the bath. Something low in his belly jerked with excitement at her forcefulness.  

Little shivers arced up his spine when she stood on tiptoe and whispered just below his ear, “Hold still. This will only hurt for a moment.”

He swallowed hard, nodding in eager understanding.

Looking at him in the eye, she said lowly, "Breathe in."

He did.

"And breathe out."

He complied.

Which was when she pinched a large handful of flesh on his upper arm and struck. He'd failed to notice the syringe in her hand until then.

"Molly!" he shouted, the sting to his ego worse than the jab.

Dabbing at the injured spot with a cotton ball she'd stashed somewhere on her pajama-clad person, she cooed at him, "You're such a big, strong detective! All done! And now you probably won't get the flu!"

He scowled and glared at the plaster she efficiently slapped on his new arm hole. It was bright red and said "Ninja Training". 

"So you won't have to explain your injury," Molly supplied helpfully.

He growled and stalked away, but not before stooping to pick up the towel that had fallen off of his narrow hips sometime during all of the excitement and agony.

And then he drew up short when she coyly called after his retreating back, "I'll kiss it better."

As he swiveled around and prowled back towards her, the towel fell once more with a sad, soggy flop on the parquet.


	30. Show Me How to Get My Fingers Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song title and kind-of-sort-of Molly's last line are from Thea Gilmore's "Jazz Hands".

“You have huge hands,” she says lethargically.

“Genetics,” he mumbles as she uncurls his fingers.

He blinks sleepily, lying there on his side, watching her in the dim lamp light. Shivering when she runs a fingernail up the lines dividing his palm, he ducks his head and presses a lazy kiss to her bare shoulder.

“What’s my fate?” he slurs.

“Hmm?” She shakes her head, casting off a slight stupor. “Oh, I wasn’t reading your palm. Everyone knows that’s a crock.”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed,” she parrots, then adds, “Which is why I only read tea leaves.”

He rolls his eyes at the joke but doesn’t comment. He does press closer to her, though, when she starts tracing the outer perimeter of his hand and fingers.

She turns and kisses his cooling brow, but gets distracted when she notices the large shadows their hands cast on wall.  Setting to work, she bends his fingers, instructing him not to move them form where she leaves them.

“Goose,” she informs him, not long after.

Squinting at the shadows, he sees she’s fashioned his hand into a bird. He nods, and moves his fingers to look like the goose is honking. He’s rewarded with her tired, low laugh. It’s oddly sultry, considering the silliness of her shadow puppetry.

A few animals (or weak attempts at them) later, she straightens all of his fingers and splays them, shaking his hand side to side, and off his quirked brow, she explains, “Spirit fingers.”

"That’s a first.” He and pep have never mixed, after all.

“I guessed as much.” She pulls his hand to her mouth, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to his palm before lowering it to her chest. “Shame. You’ve got some lovely jazz hands. Feel free to try them out on me whenever you like.”

“Invitation noted and accepted,” he says, leaning over her to bring their lips together.


	31. Across the Highs and Lows and the In-Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from You + Me's "You and Me".

It isn’t the snap of frost on the grass underfoot that tells her winter will arrive today, nor her breath cascading out in front of her as she moves across the field.  

It is the blue cast to everything around her—grass, breath, trees—that heralds the imminent snowfall. Though it is not yet evening, shadows fall heavily with the cold. The dark shapes of the few cottages that dot the perimeter of the field are demarcated with lantern and firelight shining through their windows.

A chevron of geese flies over her while she walks, their autumnal cries growing faint, as if summoning her to head to warmth, too.

Her wool shawl barely wards off the cold, but she hardly notices. She tucks it a little more securely around her slight frame as she moves into a copse of trees. The blue gloaming manages to eke through them, allowing her to just make out obstacles on the forest floor. Her eyes adjust quickly, and soon she moves confidently, lifting her skirts slightly to step over branches and underbrush.

The cold gathers in her cheeks, though the only thing that has her shivering is the figure that separates away from a cluster of trees up ahead. Shivering, but not from fright or chill.

“You came,” he says quietly, but not so quietly that she doesn’t hear the relief and hesitance in his voice. 

She steps closer. “I told you I would.”

“People say they’ll do all sorts of things. It doesn’t mean they actually will,” he reminds her. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. The front of his shirt hangs open at the neck, no cloth to secure it. His skin and the white linen and the shadows of his coat cast different shades of chilled twilight.

A snowflake floats down lazily, landing on her cheek.

It's a glad thing that she can remind him again. “I don’t make promises I won’t keep.”

He looks around, a strident man made weary by the things he’s seen and done in the last year. He trusts her with his life, though it’s not an easy reality  for him.

“It’s too dangerous,” he murmurs.

She wills him to believe her. “Even so.”

He wants to argue, but he knows her. So he changes tack. He squints and looks up to the small patches of darkening sky visible through pine boughs. He’s noticed the sporadic flakes, too.

“I shouldn’t have asked you meet me out here. Not so late in the day. You will have to find your back to your cottage in the dark and the snow.”

She makes a noise of impatience and waves his concern away. “You had no reason to expect the shift in the weather. I’ll be fine.”

“If I’d not dragged you into this, you’d be fine. Secretly meeting a dead man in the woods in winter does not qualify as ‘fine’,” he insists.

Shaking her head, she moves even closer, so mere inches separate them. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I was the one who offered my help. You only accepted it. Taking that help doesn’t make you culpable for imagined dangers.”

“They’re only imagined because they haven’t come to light yet,” he insists.

Instead of answering, she frowns, looking him over. She reaches forward, and he lets her take both of his hands without any of the guardedness that he normally carries with him.

“Your hands are freezing. Gloves?”

He shakes his head wordlessly. Tears try to well in her eyes, but she won’t let them escape. Instead, she brings his wrists together and tucks his fingers under her chin, covering the broad backs of his hands with hers to warm them.

He takes the warmth and comfort wordlessly. They stand there, the only sounds around them the sizzle of snowflakes landing on the ground. It will start to gather soon, she knows.

Apparently, he comes to a decision of his own, for he steps into her, letting his body rest against hers. His head hangs low so his cheek could brush against hers if he’d let it.

When he does, her eyes slide closed. She turns her face enough to make the contact less fleeting, and he allows that, too. Though she didn’t have the presence of mind to wear a cloak when she left to meet him, she only vaguely notices the wetness of melted flakes in her hair. Not with the tympanic beat of his heart against the back of her right hand and the heat that moves off of him.

By the time she decides it’s safe to move, blues have bled to the pink clouds unique to snowy nights, and that snow now falls with determination.  He stalls briefly when she turns and doesn’t release her hold on him. But it’s not much of a struggle, and though reluctant, he follows her as she moves back the way she came. The silent field is just showing a dusting of white, and the lamp-lit windows on the cottages look softened somehow behind the falling snow.

While she adjusts her grip on his hand and leads him to her front door, she knows it won’t do much. He’ll take ephemeral warmth, but eventually, he’ll ascertain that everyone else is well, ask her if anything strange has gotten her attention. It’s the reason he asked her to meet him in the forest in the first place, after all.

He’ll lie with her and the expanse of her bed won’t feel so great. Only for the blink of an eye, though. When she wakes in the morning, he’ll be gone. But if he lets her warm him for even that short time, she knows it will have been right.

* * *

Her heavy eyes blink open hours later. It is morning. She is lying in her iron bed, staring through the small window next to the bedside. Drifts of snow on the ground and trees blend with the white of sky, though the clouds no longer hang as low as they had the night before.

She shivers a little and pulls the feather ticking up to cover her shoulders. She’d let the fire die in the night. Now, she has to decide whether to dart across the cold wood of her bedroom floor to the small fireplace and rebuild it, or just burrow into her bed and hope for hibernation to set in.  The thought of the cold air touching her bare skin doesn’t have much appeal, but her small cottage will never warm up if she doesn’t set to work heating it soon.

When strong arms move around her and tug her back against a warm chest and a breath sighs against her neck, she startles. She is unsure of the how’s or why’s, but a stunned joy fills her, nonetheless.

And she realizes that she needn’t leave her bed to find a fire.


	32. Let's 'Science' in a Far More Intimate Setting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are two short drabble/221(ish) stories.

* * *

_**Let’s ‘Science’ in a Far More Intimate Setting** _

* * *

She mindlessly shoves her safety goggles further up her nose, examining the contents in her petri dish.

She looks… nice. Smart. Scientific. Pretty.

He watches her, twitchily shifting from foot to foot. Before he can talk himself out of it, he shuffles up to her. She doesn’t notice his approach until he looms over her and only then because she turns to fetch something from a drawer.

She squeaks, surprised, but it’s muffled when he swoops down and kisses her.

Seconds or maybe minutes later, he jumps back and  _stares_ , assessing her reaction.

“Wh—what?” she stutters. Her hair is a tangled mess and her goggles are now on the floor.

He whirls around to look into a microscope. He hopes she won’t notice that it’s neither on, nor does it have a slide on its stage. Also, it’s missing any sort of eyepiece.

“Why’d you kiss me?” she demands. She can’t decipher his mumble and asks him to repeat.

“I said, ‘Happy New Year,’” he barks with a glare.

Drawing back, she blinks. “But it’s not near midnight.”

“Fine,” he sniffs. “I’ll come back then. See you at 11:59.”

He hurries away, aware that she’s chasing after him, laughing softly.

Admittedly, he puts up no fight when she catches him and pushes him up against the wall for another kiss.

 

* * *

**Untitled (A Drabble to Celebrate the One Year Anniversary of a Kiss)**

* * *

He frowns at the chromatograph printout.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Do you ever think about it?” He straightens his papers, eyes carefully downcast.

“About what?”

“The time I crashed through a window on a bungee cord and kissed you.”

Her brow furrows. “That never happened….”

“No,” he insists. “It was just too passionate and we had to focus on the mission. But Anderson says it happened. I trust him more than our lust-addled brains.”

Pondering this, she nods. “Makes sense.”

“Then I guess we’d better get on with it,” he says, and texts her an iCal appointment for dinner that night.

 


End file.
